Defying Tomorrow
by Cinis
Summary: The gods are locked in war and Themyscira, a city crafted by the Five Goddesses as a refuge for women, slips inexorably towards disaster as its queen clings to peace with a desperate tenacity. It falls then to Antiope, daughter of Ares and sister of Hippolyta, to fight for her people as the gods tear the world apart around them. [Antiope/Menalippe] [Ancient Greece AU]
1. Chapter 1

**Defying Tomorrow: Chapter One**

* * *

"Antiope!"

Antiope hisses. Sunlight floods her room. Someone yanks away her bedsheet.

" _Antiope_!"

Pushing herself into a seated position, Antiope rubs sleep from her eyes. At her side, her companion from the previous night remains stretched out in the large bed, though she stirs enough to show that she's woken as well.

Above the bed towers Penthesilea, wearing full armor. At a mere twenty-one years of age, she's far bigger and better at looming than she has any right to be. Her right hand rests on the hilt of her sword, though her sword is sheathed. "Antiope," she repeats. She gestures with her left hand, flicking her fingers towards the high ceiling. "Get up."

Antiope doesn't get up. Resting her elbows on her knees, she scowls at her half-sister. "What?" she demands. "What is it?" As she speaks, she suppresses a shiver. It is very early spring, Penthesilea has come in through her balcony door, and the outside air is cool against her bare skin. She would like to return to the warmth of her bed and the other woman in it.

"Slavers," Penthesilea says. "Athenians with women. Crossing our lands."

This draws a scowl from Antiope. She is far more awake now. "What? They know better."

Penthesilea's voice is dark. "They do not."

Antiope runs a hand through her hair. It's still in a braid from the previous night and the part that isn't braided is a mess. "Hippolyta?"

"Why do you think I'm here rousing you?" Penthesilea replies. There's an edge in her tone.

So she hasn't gone to the queen.

 _Hippolyta_. Anger, hot and potent, sparks in Antiope's chest.

Antiope shoves herself from her bed. She dresses fast, donning her basilisk-hide armor with a practiced ease. She is a daughter of Ares. All the ways of war come naturally to her. Before she takes up her spear and bow, she grabs a gold coin from her purse. She presses it into the hand of the woman still in her bed and gives her a brief kiss on the cheek.

Armed, armored, she follows Penthesilea out.

They go by the balcony door and they skirt the palace grounds as they head to the stables. No one of the guards would impede them except by Hippolyta or Philippus' orders, but it's best that they not attract attention. They move as quickly as they can without seeming as though they are in a hurry.

The stables of Themyscira are grand, comparable almost to Hippolyta's great house. A magnificent complex of buildings all made of wood with great, vibrant murals painted across the walls, they sit between the palace and the rolling fields where the horses graze during good weather. The Amazons pride themselves on their horses and their horsemanship. The riders of the distant steppes north of the Axeinos might rival them, but among the Greeks they are peerless.

Penthesilea has rallied a squad of three warriors who stand waiting for them when they arrive. Everyone is armed. All have grim faces. They are the younger Amazons, the ones of Antiope's age and of Antiope's mind about the world. Antiope nods to them in greeting. One of them, Anaea, leads Antiope's favorite horse to her. The horse, a tall chestnut stallion that Antiope has raised since he was a newborn foal and named Aethon, has already been saddled and prepared to travel.

Antiope grips a handful of her horse's mane and swings herself up into the saddle. Following her, her sister Amazons do the same. One of them tosses Antiope a light bag of trail provisions, just enough for a day. "Where are they?" Antiope asks.

"North Road headed east," Penthesilea says. "Not far at all. We can catch them by noon, I think. Iris spotted them. She came to me first."

Antiope doesn't mean to, but she growls. She manages to rein her anger in enough to reply with words, "Let's go."

Her _rage_ is a gift from her father.

But she controls _it_. It does not control her.

The North Road is close to the city. That slavers would travel by it infuriates Antiope. It infuriates Penthesilea as well no doubt. That these men should have so little respect for the dominion of the Amazons, that they should drag their vile trade across Themysciran land – it tastes like bile in the back of Antiope's mouth.

 _And still Hippolyta does nothing_.

Antiope and her band set out at a trot. The guards posted at outskirts of the city neither stop nor question them. Riding in full armor, it's not hard to see what it is they intend, but the women who hold the authority to order them back are busy elsewhere. Antiope is sure that by now someone has gone running to her sister. This means nothing to her. Hippolyta can't stop them, not now.

Hippolyta will be furious when they return though, of course. The Amazons have a treaty of free passage with the Athenians. Hippolyta will be almost as furious as Antiope is that she has to ride out to fix this mess that's come oozing over their borders on account of Hippolyta's inaction. So Hippolyta can be furious. She and her lover and _strategos_ Philippus are so concerned with keeping peace that they'll not defend Themyscira.

So the duty falls to Antiope and to Penthesilea and to their like-minded sisters.

And they'll execute it faithfully.

Themyscira is a city built by the Five Goddesses as a refuge for women cast out from the cities of men. It has been two generations now since the Five crafted the first Amazons to defend their sanctuary, which has grown now into a city of many thousands. Antiope's mother's mother was the first queen among their people. She fought and she killed and she was killed for Themyscira. Her daughter, fathered by Eurus, the east wind, was Antiope's mother Otrera. Otrera herself was such a great warrior, such a woman of myth that Ares gave her not one but two children.

But now, as war rages all around for the sake of Athenian ego, Hippolyta, queen, has chosen the narrowest view of the mission of the Amazons that can possibly be argued. She keeps their army back. She chooses not to intervene beyond their borders. And the result of her decisions? Men dragging captive women across land that should be free.

As angry as she is, Antiope does not push her band overly hard. The North Road is close, but not so close that they can reach it going at a full tilting gallop without laming their horses. Crossing Themysciran fields, they break briefly late in the morning to rest their mounts and eat. It's no good chasing slavers on an empty stomach.

They say little to one another. They don't linger for long. Soon, they're on their way again, crossing the scrubby plains of Theymscira, mountains looming in the distance.

They reach the North Road and then turn east towards Athens, progressing at a quick walk. They'll either catch up to their targets or their targets will come to them in time. Late winter rains have left the ground muddy, but it has been several days since the last deluge and so the road is not so bad.

Antiope readies her bow. It pays to be prepared, always.

"Will we let them surrender?" Penthesilea asks. Herself a daughter of Ares as well, she shares Antiope's disposition in most things. A year younger, she often looks to Antiope for guidance though. Now, there's sweat on her brow and the same fire in her eyes that sits in Antiope's chest.

Antiope flexes her fingers. She tests her bowstring. She knows what Hippolyta would say. She knows what Hippolyta would want. "No," she says. She is not her sister.

Near to what Penthesilea predicted, they come upon the Athenians shortly before noon. It's a group of nine men leading a string of—it's too many women for Antiope to count quickly and the time to act is _now_.

With a shout, Antiope kicks her horse Aethon into a gallop. Mud flies beneath his hooves. Behind her she hears her sister Amazons urging the same for their mounts. She draws an arrow, nocks, pulls, aims, releases. Her shot flies true. It buries in one of the head of her target. It hits with such force that it splits his brow with a crack and throws his body backwards. Three more of the men fall to arrows. Then, the Amazons are on them.

In the charge, with the momentum of her horse and the strength of her arm, Antiope runs a man through the chest with her spear. Her flashing bronze spear point goes clean through his sternum and for several beats she's got a dying man suspended in the air from her weapon, clawing at the death protruding from his chest.

The blood, the fury, the adrenaline, the _blood_ – Antiope's grin is ferocious. She shakes the corpse free from her spear with a victorious scream.

Nothing in the world can compare to the bright ecstasy of violence.

After riding all morning, Antiope and her band finish the fight in seconds. Even if they hadn't had the element of surprise, they are trained warriors. The slavers were thugs. And now they are _dead_ thugs. To call what occurred a _fight_ is likely to oversell it. It wasn't enough to draw out her full fury, and that's almost disappointing.

Antiope brings her horse to a halt. Despite the lack of a true contest, she's sweating profusely. That it is early spring does not mean the days are not hot. Aethon is sweating too, but as she reads him, he's in good condition. She slips down from her saddle and gives him a quick pat. He's done well.

The quick brawl is over now and there's other work to be seen to.

Antiope's companions remain mounted. They're relaxed, but relaxed such that their hands linger near their weapons.

The muddy road sucks at Antiope's feet. She wouldn't want to march through this muck.

She approaches the string of women slowly, her hands raised. Their hands are bound, but she's not here to scare them. They're a sorry lot, gaunt but not overly starved, wearing what were probably once good clothes but that have now seen far too much of time and of the road. There's a _tired_ terror in their eyes. War captives.

Of late, all Greece drowns in war captives and refugees and corpses.

Antiope can't tell from the look of them where they're from. Coming from the southwest and headed northeast… she tries Arcadian. It's close enough to every other tongue on the peninsula that she should be understood no matter where these women are from. She speaks slowly though. "We're not going to hurt you."

This gets no response. From horseback, Antiope's companions continue to keep a wary watch. They're not acting like they're not going to hurt anyone, but there's not much Antiope can do for that at this point. It can't be helped, either, that Antiope herself is splattered in the blood of the men she just butchered in front of the women.

"This is Themyscira," Antiope says. "We are Amazons."

 _This_ gets murmuring among the women, but it's quiet and Antiope can't make it out.

Antiope reaches for her knife and draws it slowly. "I'm going to cut you free," she says. Still moving with care, she steps towards the first woman in the string. The woman shrinks back but doesn't fight when Antiope catches hold of her hands. The rope is thick and soggy and it takes some effort to cut it without cutting anything else but Antiope manages.

When the bonds lie in the mud, she moves to the next woman. Then the next. Then the next. There are twenty-five in all.

And out of the twenty-five there is only one who meets her eyes.

The last one in the string, she's tall, as tall as an Amazon even, and just as beautiful. She is as dirty and haggard as the rest, but she is not afraid. Antiope finds it disconcerting. It sends a shiver down her spine. Themyscira has taken many women uprooted and cast into the worst of the world by the war in recent months. Antiope's become accustomed to being met with the precarious fear that sits between terror and resignation. This woman has none of that. She's just… curious. Her dark eyes sweep over Antiope and linger on Antiope's face as if she's studying it.

Antiope feels _caught_ staring into the woman's dark eyes.

Something is not right.

Antiope trusts her gut. She's opening her mouth to demand this woman's name and, more importantly, who she is, when she hears her own name.

" _Antiope_."

Antiope recognizes the voice.

Hippolyta has decided not to wait.

Antiope turns away from the woman. Her sister sits astride a white horse, her queen's guard at her back. She wears robes of state instead of armor and Philippus is not with her. She doubtless set out as soon as she heard that Antiope and her band had left the city intending violence. She probably arrived at the stable faster than any messenger sent to ready a horse could have run there.

Antiope's band, including Penthesilea, have all dismounted and knelt. Antiope was so distracted by the stranger that she didn't notice the commotion of her queen's arrival.

Rarely has Antiope seen Hippolyta this incandescent with rage. Hippolyta's blue eyes flicker from dead slaver to dead slaver. Her face darkens with each.

"My queen," Antiope says. Her own anger has faded, bled out in battle. Her defiance, however, is part of her nature.

"Get on your horse. Come," Hippolyta commands. She looks to Penthesilea. "You," she says to her half-sister. "Bury the bodies. Walk these women to the city and see to them."

"My queen," Anaea says, out of turn entirely. "We don't have shovels."

Hippolyta's tone is frost when she replies. "Use your helmets," she says. "Or your hands. I don't care."

Anaea flinches. "Yes, my queen," she murmurs.

Antiope herself grimaces. She trudges through the muck of the road to her horse, mounts, goes to her sister. Growling deep in her throat, Hippolyta wheels her own steed about and leads the way back to the city, leaving Antiope's band go by foot with the women.

With a wave, Hippolyta orders her guard to give her and her sister space. They retreat out of easy earshot. When Hippolyta speaks, she does so quietly, though her tone is still dripping with anger. "When we return to the city," she says. "You do not leave it again without my leave. I will inform the guards."

"I did the right thing," Antiope growls back. She respects Hippolyta's desire for privacy and keeps her voice low. She doesn't have any particular desire to be berated so publicly anyway.

"The right thing was to come to me," Hippolyta snaps back. "The Athenians are the greatest power north of the Peloponnese, they are rampaging southwards, and we have a _treaty_ with them."

"Does that treaty involve letting them haul slaves over our land?" Antiope asks.

Hippolyta's silence is telling.

"We are Amazons," Antiope argues. In her blood, she feels her returning rage simmer. "It is our duty to protect Themyscira."

Even if she does not often train and even if she does not often ride into battle, Hippolyta is every bit a daughter of Ares. Disregarding privacy and disregarding quiet, she raises her voice. "You think I enjoy these treaties, these deals, this game of politics? I _am_ protecting Themyscira. You are barely twenty-two years. You are _young_ and you understand _nothing_."

Antiope answers just as loudly. "I _understand_ that you would allow anyone and everyone to traipse across our land with whatever evil they like."

Livid, Hippolyta's only response is to raise her hand and summon her guard once more. The conversation, by royal command, is _over_.

[] [] []

Riding back to the city through rolling fields, as the walls of bright Themyscira comes into sight, Antiope kicks Aethon into a gallop across the open field at the outskirts of the city. She leaves Hippolyta and Hippolyta's escort behind. For the time being she has no intention to disobey her sister. She'll go to the city and she'll stay. But she won't do it while being taken under guard like a prisoner.

When she reaches the stable, she unsaddles her horse and sees to him. He is a good horse and she's cared for him his entire life. She rubs him down and pats his face and gives him a treat. Antiope is aware that, as he is _her_ horse, Aethon puts up with a great deal more than he would if he had a less temperamental mistress. She tries to do right by him.

Only when she is thoroughly satisfied that her horse's needs have been attended to does she kick her way back towards the palace.

Hippolyta's high house soars, grandiose, above all other buildings in the city. The gods built it. The gods built it when the Amazons were first created and the gods built it well. It is made of a shining white stone, flecked with gold, that gleams even in darkness beneath the faint light of moon and stars. The great hall of the palace was made broad enough to accommodate every one of the first Amazons and even now that Themysicra has swelled with so many refuge-seekers it still serves as the largest meeting place that they have, save for the fields outside the city. They have never built a city square that can match their hall.

Antiope does not return immediately to her quarters. If she did, she'd leave a trail of mud and dirt in her wake and, while it would antagonize Hippolyta further and that is always an acceptable end, someone who is not Hippolyta would have to clean up after her, which is unacceptable.

So, instead, Antiope goes to the palace baths. She leaves her weapons with an attendant. She does not like getting her bow wet if she can avoid it. Her armor, made from the hide of a basilisk that wandered too close to the city a year ago, goes in a heap on the floor of a steam-filled antechamber. The baths beyond, heated by some god-forged furnace beneath the ground, are the source of the steam. There are several women relaxing in the pools. Antiope finds a corner of water and keeps to herself.

The water feels good but the ride out to the road and the ride back were easy things and the fighting barely rated the word. Antiope is not sore and she is not tired. She's just discontent.

She dunks her head beneath the water, then comes back up dripping. Fueled by restlessness, she washes, dresses in a clean tunic, then takes her arms again and leaves.

She stalks through the palace and no one moves to intercept her. She's lived here all her life and those that frequent Hippolyta's house are accustomed to her moods.

Antiope's quarters in the palace are empty. She has three rooms to herself, an antechamber, a bedroom, and a room where she collects arms and armor in a hoard. Her antechamber and her bedroom are both large, far too large for her liking. With no one but her in them, it is hard not to feel that there is too much quiet, too much nothing.

Antiope puts away her gear and goes to sit on the edge of her bed. Someone has arranged it neatly in her absence.

She sets her elbows on her knees, her chin on her elbows, and she broods.

As she's grown older and come to understand how little of a place she has in Themyscira, she has become very good at brooding.

When the time comes for dinner, though her stomach rumbles with hunger, Antiope does not leave her room. She has no wish to see her sister again so soon. A night without food won't hurt her. There are so many in the world who suffer far worse.

A cool evening breeze comes through her open balcony. It quiets her anger but does not diminish it.

Penthesilea shows up long after night has fallen. Outside, the bright moon is already descending back towards the horizon. She's scrubbed clean and she's dressed as Antiope is in a simple chiton. In her hands is a hunk of cheese wrapped in a napkin. She hands the food to Antiope, then flops backwards into Antiope's bed. "We only just got back," she says. "Dealing with the bodies took forever. I hate walking."

Antiope bites into the cheese. It's soft and slightly tart. She chews, swallows, then, "The women?"

"They're cleaned up and sleeping in one of the workshops tonight," Penthesilea says. "Felt bad dragging them all the way back here in one go but trying to camp out with them partway didn't seem ideal either."

Antiope finishes the cheese and then drops backwards onto the bed as well, lying next to her half-sister and fellow _basileia_. She stares up at the high stone ceiling above.

"We don't have room for so many refugees," Antiope says. "If they keep coming to us, soon we won't have food for them either."

Penthesilea shrugs. "The villages to the south are gone. We can settle some of them there, expand our borders. The fields are still cleared. No one's using them. Holy Demeter will provide. She always has."

"Hippolyta doesn't want to expand our borders," Antiope growls. Her hands clench into fists. "She just wants to… to shrink them."

"That's not going to work," Penthesilea observes, unhelpful. "She's queen though."

Antiope raises her hands up and lays her palms against her forehead. "I don't like doing nothing. But I don't know what else to do."

Penthesilea groans. "And I know less than you," she says. She pauses, then scoffs. "I could find that hetaira from this morning for you," she says. "What was her name?"

"Neaira," Antiope answers. "But don't bother. She likes working at the loom house and only comes around when she feels like it." Antiope pauses, then, "Does it bother you?" she begins. "That we live here and we do so little and the whole of Themyscira revolves around this place and around us?"

"Not as much as it bothers you," Penthesilea answers. "And you do quite a lot," she adds. "You handle Hippolyta."

This gets draws a single forced laugh from Antiope. "I do a poor job of it."

"If we had Philippus with us, we'd prevail," Penthesilea says.

"We'll never have Philippus with us," Antiope replies. "She thinks her duty is to never disagree with Hippolyta."

"I think you should be _strategos_ ," Penthesilea says. "That would be far more fun."

To that, Antiope says nothing.

Her silence is her agreement.

[] [] []

Long after morning has broken, Antiope rises, dresses, arms herself, and goes down to the training fields. Sister of Hippolyta, she has only what duties her queen sees fit to give her. And, of late, her queen has given her none.

She's woken late and the grassy fields are already crowded when she arrives. She picks a corner and warms her muscles, preparing for a day of movement. With the divine blood of war in her, she was born strong. If she so chose she could live as Hippolyta, spending her days sitting and talking and planning, and still bring devastation in battle when battle came to her. She is, perhaps, more her father's daughter than her sister, however. In her thinking, there is no such thing as too much strength.

When she feels limber, Antiope steps out among the other warriors. She's a common sight here and no one pays her any more attention than any other comrade.

Most of the women today are sparring in small groups. Most of the women on most days are sparring. It's more exciting than drill work, even if drill work is just as important. If Antiope were in command, she would probably set more order to the training, but she is not in command and she doesn't mind benefiting from noisy chaos.

Antiope scans the pitch, looking for—her eyes light on Artemis, knocking some unprepared novice off her feet.

Antiope knows she should not be so harsh on the defeated woman. Artemis has knocked Antiope off her feet and onto her ass more times than she can count.

Weaving her way through the loud and disorganized melee of the field, Antiope makes her way to Artemis. One of biggest and strongest of the Amazons, comparing well to even Penthesilea in feats of raw power, the _lochagos_ is always a popular partner for sparring and there's a small line of women waiting for her to trounce them.

Antiope joins the line. Immediately ahead of her is dark-skinned Alexa, Artemis' younger sister. Antiope likes Alexa quite a lot; she is one of Antiope's closest friends. She's about Antiope's age and she's one of the few Amazons who doesn't tower over Antiope in height. "Morning," Antiope greets.

Alexa arches an eyebrow. She inclines her head up towards the sky. "Antiope, it is almost noon."

Antiope shrugs. "Not noon yet. So. Morning."

"I heard what happened yesterday," Alexa says.

"All good things, I'm sure," Antiope drawls. She feels a bit prickly.

"Mixed," Alexa replies. She hesitates. Ahead of her, Artemis flips an opponent head over heels. "Look, Antiope, as your friend… division isn't going to help anything."

Antiope tries to smile politely but all she manages is a grimace. "Did some dead philosopher say that?" she asks.

"Next," Artemis calls.

The bout between Artemis and Alexa lasts heartbeats. Descended from the original Amazons, Alexa is a warrior by birth but she lacks her sister's talent for it. She prefers books and it's no secret among her comrades that she only comes out of the library to the training fields to please Artemis, or, rather, to forestall Artemis' sharp disapproval. Alexa does try though.

Artemis helps her sister up, then, "Next."

Antiope steps forward. Artemis gives her a nod. Alexa hands her a training staff.

Antiope spins the staff once, testing its weight and getting a sense for its personality. It has seen many, many blows struck by and against inexperienced hands. It is somewhat tired.

As weapons go, it's not perfect but it's good enough for training work.

They start out by circling. Antiope has respect for Artemis and she's earned respect from Artemis. Neither one of them is inclined to rush. Rushing is how warriors make mistake. Rushing is how soldiers die.

Antiope waits until Artemis is crossing her feet in a step. Moment chosen, she dashes forward to engage. Artemis blocks her first strike squarely, then brings the butt of her staff up to slam into Antiope's side. Antiope flits out of the way. She's younger, smaller, and ever so slightly _faster_ than her opponent. She answer's Artemis' blow with one of her own.

The clack of wood on wood forms an irregular rhythm. Their battle is all strikes and blocks and the whisper of grass under foot. From time to time one of them will throw in a kick or an elbow, but never to any effect. Sweat drips into Antiope's eyes and stings. They're very evenly matched.

Antiope doesn't want to be evenly matched. She wants to be better.

When she finally sees an opening in Artemis' guard she doesn't hesitate. She doesn't wonder if this it may be a trap. She hits as hard and as fast as she can.

Her instinct was good and her blow to Artemis' ribcage connects.

Her staff breaks.

Artemis responds by ramming a fist into Antiope's shoulder. Antiope falls, hard. She only barely tucks her chin in time to stop the back of her head from slamming into the ground. The landing knocks the wind out of her.

Artemis offers her a hand up.

"Not fair," Antiope mutters, taking the hand.

Artemis chuckles. "Life is not fair," she says. She's breathing hard. "Good work, Antiope. Next."

Backing away from the next combat, Antiope finally wipes the thick layer of sweat from her brow with the back of her forearm. She didn't have a chance during the bout. From the corner of her eye, she notices something out of place on the field.

At the far edge, a group of women stand watching. Penthesilea is with them. They're the women from the day before, being shown about the city, no doubt. Someone has given them new clothes. Not quite recovered from her fall and unready to return to brawling, Antiope waves to Penthesilea and then picks her way towards them.

When Antiope has come close, Penthesilea steps forward to clap her on the back. "Almost," she says. "Maybe next time."

"Definitely next time," Antiope corrects.

Penthesilea turns her attention back to the women. "This is Antiope, daughter of Otrera. She is sister and _basileia_ of Queen Hippolyta," Penthesilea says. Her voice is light even as she struggles to affect a Doric accent. She's working very hard to keep them all at ease. "You may recognize her. She was the handsome one with the bow."

Copying Penthesilea's manner of speech, Antiope says, "I am glad to see you all well. If you need any assistance, do not hesitate to find me." Quickly, she tries to look as many of the women in the eye as she can. But when she gets to the woman from the day before though, the woman who wasn't afraid, and she stops there. She doesn't look away. She finds that she can't.

"Hey," Penthesilea says, digging her elbow into Antiope's side. "I have dibs on being helpful. I found them first."

Dragging her eyes over to Penthesilea, Antiope grins. "But I'm the handsome one," she says.

This gets a soft laugh from a few of the women.

Antiope's grin widens.

Penthesilea's sigh is loud. "So that's Antiope," she says. "And these were the training fields. I think maybe the market next?"

Without clear plans for her day, it's easy for Antiope to decide to attach herself to the group. She has more than a little natural charisma and striking up a conversation is simple. In short order, she gathers that most of the women were Spartan helots captured in an Athenian raid just south of Themyscira. They hadn't been on the road for very long when the Amazons came and slaughtered the slavers. There are twenty-five of them and that's far too many names for Antiope to keep track of, but she remembers the one that matters.

 _Menalippe_.

Menalippe is one of the women who hangs back and doesn't cluster around Antiope or Penthesilea as they chatter and walk through the city. She seems to be around Antiope's age or perhaps only a few years Antiope's senior, making her distance all the more strange. She is too young to be so old. Surrounded as she is by so many who would like her attention, however, Antiope cannot freely approach the women who remain slightly apart.

Penthesilea gives the group a tour of the Themysciran market. So early in spring there is scant activity. The farmers have little to sell and the itinerant traders are few and far between in these days of war. But they will come in time. As one of the few cities that has held back from all-out war, Themyscira has remained prosperous when so many of the great states have been rendered burnt-out husks.

Antiope isn't entirely blind. It's an uneasy path that Hippolyta has chosen for her people.

As they pass one of the meager stalls set out in the market square, a statuette of a black horse catches Antiope's eye. Moving quickly so as not to disrupt the movement of the group, she flips the traveling merchant a silver coin and plucks the horse from among his wares. He doesn't complain. The coin is overpayment by far.

Excusing herself smoothly from the conversation that she has built up around her, she slips over to the woman, to Menalippe. She holds out the black horse figure. "For you," she says. "It fits your name."

Menalippe looks confused for a moment. Then her face smooths into something a little bit distant and terribly unreadable. "My thanks," she says. Her voice is deep, confident. Her accent is thicker than those of her companions. It seems more southern, more foreign. When she takes the horse from Antiope, her fingers brush against Antiope's skin.

Antiope suppresses a shiver. She turns whatever else her body might do into a smile.

Well then.

She has a frame now, she supposes, for why she would like to know more about this Menalippe. It's not a terribly useful frame though. There's an unspoken understanding among the Amazons that they should be cautious in approaching anyone recently come to the city.

Antiope understands the reasoning, of course. But in this case, she rather wishes things were different.

"My pleasure," Antiope says, careful to keep her tone casual.

"Antiope," Penthesilea calls from somewhere ahead. "Come on!"

Antiope blinks. Despite her determination not to slow the movement of the group, she and Menalippe are standing now somewhat behind the rest. Quickly, she turns away and hurries up to the front with Penthesilea and the women more inclined to conversation.

Menalippe, she thinks, comes along as well but stays towards the back. Antiope resists the urge to check.

* * *

 **A/N:** This is the first chapter of the NaNo that I wrote last month. The rest of the fic is under some pretty heavy edits, but hopefully with the holidays coming I'll be able to maintain a weekly or bi-weekly update schedule for this.

 _Basileus_ : This is, roughly, "king" or "chieftain." While it means "king," it contrasts with " _anax,_ " which in Homeric Greek means "high king" or "chief of kings." So Achilles was _basileus_ but Agamemnon was _anax_. Antiope and Penthesiela are both called " _basileia_ " to indicate their hereditary tribal rank/respect within the Amazons deriving from their relationship to Hippolyta.

Amazonian Matronymics: The Amazons use matronymics instead of patronymics here. Antiope is properly "Antiope, daughter of Otrera," but it gets a bit confused since she's also the daughter of an important male god and she tends to identify more with her father than her mother and this fic is from her POV.

Menalippe's Name: I've been over this in my notes for my fic Better Days to Come, but "Menalippe" is a name derived from "Melanippe," which means "black mare."

Neaira: Neaira was the name of a hetaera (either a particular class of very high end courtesan _or_ just a general word for any kind of prostitute) who ran into some legal trouble in Athens in the 4th century BC. The resulting prosecution is a major source of what we know about sex work in ancient Greece. I'm not going to get into all that here. Her inclusion in this fic was in part to better connect this city culturally to the rest of ancient Greece, in part to characterize Antiope, and also to sort of raise the question of what would sex work look like if you had a "paradise island" society of women where everyone is being provided for by the grace of the gods (but you also still have a hierarchical power structure)? I don't have an answer to that question except that I've sort of set it up as a "doing it because it was my old job before I cam here and I feel like it" thing, which I think is... plausible, hopefully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Defying Tomorrow: Chapter Two**

* * *

At dinnertime, Antiope joins the other Amazons in the great hall of her sister's palace. They begin to take their seats at long wooden tables when there is still light in the sky, but lamps are filled and placed, ready to last them late into the night. Palace dinners are for the Amazons and the Amazons alone, the ones descended from those first women created by the Five Goddesses. They are the ones charged with overseeing and protecting the great city.

There are no men among them. Themyscira is not a place for men. It was a gift from the goddesses who made the first Amazons that they would always be blessed with daughters and that gift is still strong in their descendants. When an Amazon wishes a man, she takes up with one of the travelers who pass through Themyscira or she leaves their lands for a time. Their city, their land, and their race were created for women and only for women. Even the sons of those who take shelter in the city leave when they come of age.

Reluctant, Antiope takes her place at her sister's side at the head of the great hall. Hippolyta says nothing to her. She says nothing to Hippolyta.

Dinner is a time of community. It is a time of coming together. They do it day in and day out and they have all lived their lives together. There are times such as festivals when they celebrate, but on most days they simply eat and converse and that is enough to fill the entire hall with sound. Though elsewhere the palace brims with goblets of crystal and gold and other such things, the Amazons eat here with poorly decorated clay vessels. Often, there are friendly brawls fueled by wine and it is easier to sweep up pottery shards than account for the destruction of masterpieces.

The high table is the only one consumed by silence. Even Penthesilea, seated next to Antiope on the side opposite Hippolyta, has nothing to say here tonight. It's a tension that Antiope can barely stand. If it wouldn't cause a scene, she'd go and sit with friends among the other tables. Briefly, she even considers doing so _because_ it would cause a scene. In the end though, she knows that antagonizing Hippolyta for her own petty satisfaction will amount to very little petty satisfaction and be far more trouble than it's worth.

She eats quickly and excuses herself with a murmur. Hippolyta gives her a small wave, the slightest lift of her hand, allowing her to leave. A formality. She hurries out of the hall. Behind her, she hears Penthesilea following.

They go out to the stables together.

Only the stable hands are present and when they see who it is who has come, they make themselves scarce. Antiope goes to the spacious stall where her horse, her gorgeous Aethon, sleeps and lays herself down in the dull yellow-brown straw next to him. As she settles in, her horse snorts in his sleep. The small area smells thickly of horse, which is exactly how it should smell. Penthesilea leans up against the brightly painted door of the stall. She balances a flickering lamp on top of the door.

For a while there's a comfortable quiet while they both think of what to converse about. It's far different from the blanket of anxiety that surrounds Hippolyta always. There is no pressure here, not even pressure to speak. It would be uncommon for them to say nothing at all to one another, but theirs is a bond that can withstand silence.

"What do you think of the newcomers?" Penthesilea finally asks.

"I like Menalippe," Antiope says. She doesn't mind telling Penthesilea. She is closer to her half-sister than she is to anyone else in the city. A lazy grin starts to work its way across her face. "She's very attractive."

"I noticed that you noticed," Penthesilea replies, voice not devoid of humor. She's got a silly half-grin on her face too. It's something they probably both got from their father. Once upon a time, Hippolyta had it too.

"I wish she _weren't_ a newcomer," Antiope adds. She picks at the straw beneath her. She finds a piece she likes and starts twining it around one of her fingers.

"It's not actually a rule, you know," Penthesilea offers. "And that one… she seems like even if it were—rules can have exceptions." She pauses, then adds, "Hippolyta would throw a fit." She finishes with a shrug.

"Well when you put it like that, I have no choice," Antiope replies. She lets go of her piece of straw and watches it unwind, bouncing back towards how it was before but not quite making it all the way.

Penthesilea, quickly, with worry, "I didn't mean-"

"I won't," Antiope cuts in, grin fading. "I'm not immoral."

"Sorry," Penthesilea says.

Antiope ignores the apology. She knows Penthesilea hadn't meant to accuse her of contemplating taking advantage of a refuge-seeker just to quarrel with Hippolyta. And she's reasonably certain too that Penthesilea knows that she knows. "There's something about her though," Antiope says. "Like she's halfway somewhere else."

Penthesilea nods her agreement. "It's unsettling. I suppose you're finding it appealing though."

It's Antiope's turn to shrug now as she stares up at the stable ceiling. "I suppose."

"You might as well try talking to her," Penthesilea says. "Since you're not doing anything else. It might get your mind off…" Here, she gestures, clearly meaning to indicate Hippolyta and her court.

"I could," Antiope says. She pivots the conversation now, "And what of you? Has anyone caught your eye of late?"

Penthesilea sighs and Antiope knows exactly what's coming next. "Just Achilles. Still."

The son of Peleus had visited them briefly near the beginning of the war. Penthesilea fell for him, utterly. He seemed to return her affections, perhaps even to the same degree, but it had been a strange affair. They spent every waking moment sparring. They fought with spears and with swords and they wrestled and they tried to bash each other's brains out with maces. To Antiope's knowledge—and Antiope's knowledge of her half-sister's life is very near complete—they never even found time to lay together. Still, Hippolyta made no secret of her immense relief when Achilles was called away and, months later, it was a certain thing that Penthesilea wasn't with child.

It had been a good time for Antiope. Hippolyta had been so preoccupied clucking over Penthesilea's life that she'd had little time left for disapproving of Antiope's.

Antiope clears her throat. "There are others," she says, slow.

"There are others," Penthesilea says now. "But none quite like him."

Antiope resists the urge to sigh loudly at her half-sister. "You could go find him," Antiope she says. "Nothing is stopping _you_ from leaving. He's probably off fighting for _kleos_ in the war. I'm sure you'd enjoy joining him."

Penthesilea's laugh is somewhat forced. "And leave you to deal with Hippolyta alone? Who would rouse you to go riding on raids? Who would bring you food when you decide to brood instead of come to dinner?"

Antiope hears what's unsaid. It's not just about her. It's about the city and their people. For the time being, Penthesilea's place is in Themyscira.

So is Antiope's.

They stay a while in the stables, discussing, among other things, the weather and Clio's newest treatise. When they run out of things to say, they part. Antiope goes back to her rooms and Penthesilea goes—Antiope's not sure where Penthesilea goes. Possibly to sit outside somewhere thinking of the hero she'll never see again.

[] [] []

Another morning comes. Another day without duties passes. Another silent dinner is endured.

Neaira finds Antiope again. They spend a while talking about all the distant cities Neaira has seen that Antiope has heard of only in stories. Thebes. Corinth. Actium. When Neaira suggests that Hippolyta might not be so wrong in her course, the conversation ends. Then they fuck. Then in the morning Antiope pays and Neaira goes on her way. When she's not plying the trade she learned beyond Themyscira's walls, she's fast becoming one of the best weavers in the city.

Antiope goes down to the training fields and, as she beats down her sparring partners, she contemplates the hollow thought that there are people in the world who have purpose for their lives.

More days pass. A week passes. Two weeks pass. The weather warms enough that the Amazons spend less time exerting themselves in training. It frustrates Antiope that her sisters aren't willing to push themselves past exhaustion every day, but she knows, distantly, that she is unreasonable in this. She's unreasonable in many things.

Were she reasonable, she would not be herself.

Knowing that she is unreasonable hardly impedes her frustration, however.

What frustrates her even more is that, several times, parties of Amazons go riding from the city to deal with bandits and monsters and the like along Themyscira's borders. All know of Hippolyta's interdict, however, and Antiope is never invited to ride out with them. To be so shunned _stings_. A messenger will come to the field and call up a band and Antiope is left to watch them go.

The first time it happens, Antiope thinks that it is not so bad. She is one of the best warriors, even when compared to the older and more experienced generations, and so she often among those who are called. But not always. So the first time, she feels a twinge of longing but it is a small thing.

The second time, Antiope forgets herself and moves towards the forming band. The _lochagos_ leading it shakes her head at Antiope's approach. Penthesilea rides out. Antiope does not.

The third time—the way no one will meet her eyes—it hurts.

And the fourth time? The fourth time, Antiope quietly walks to the weapon rack, sets her training axe in its place, and then leaves the field. At first she doesn't know where she is going except that she is going _away_. Her feet take her into the city, towards the crowded streets where the women who have come to Themyscira rather than been born to it dwell. Before long, she has almost reached the agora and, then, the closer she draws to the agora, the more she directs her path. If she recalls correctly, Alexa is on guard duty there today and, when all the rest of Antiope's friends have gone off to ride beyond the city walls, she would like to pretend that she is not lonely.

By the grace of holy Demeter, the villages dotting the Themysciran countryside produce enough that hunger is of little concern to the people of the city and famine has never touched it. There is not so much, however, that women do not work for their meals. In the late spring market sprawl of the agora, vendors shout and coins showing foreign gods and foreign kings change hands. From time to time the Amazons will strike pieces of brass, silver, or gold, but most coinage in Themyscira comes from other cities.

Guards watch over the chaos of the market. In lands that are not Themyscira, these guards would be men paid by rich citizens to protect their persons and no one else. In Themyscira, the guards are Amazons organized by Hippolyta to defend all.

Searching through all the chaos of commerce, Antiope finally catches sight of Alexa and waves. Alexa, recognizable at a distance by her tied-back dreadlocks, sees her and waves back. Antiope begins picking her way through the crowd to her friend at once. It is easy going, easier than if she were a usual patron of the agora. Although she is short, she is an Amazon in armor and the women around her are eager not to impede her progress.

Standing in a patch of shade by the edge of the market, dark-skinned Alexa is wearing a heavy bronze cuirass that looks slightly too large for her and sweating profusely while leaning on a spear. There was a time when Antiope wore bronze as well, but after killing her basilisk she crafted her own armor and she has never looked back—though, she has never been sent to a duty that called for any particular uniform.

Also, she's not sure Alexa has ever killed anything larger than a fly.

As Antiope approaches, Alexa wipes thick sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, then raises an empty water skin in Antiope's direction. "Help?" Her weak smile can only be described as beleaguered and, overall, she looks miserable. Alexa is a creature of scrolls and of quiet and of thought. She was never meant for guard duty at the agora.

Antiope grins, understanding Alexa's intent. "My pleasure," she replies, taking the water skin. "I'll be back soon."

"Thank you, Antiope," Alexa calls out towards Antiope's retreating back.

Without turning, Antiope raises a hand in a dismissive wave. She's just glad for a chance to feel useful. For once. Weaving her way across the agora, she makes for the fountain house at the far end. It is not an overly large building, but it is as splendid as the rest of the sections of the city that were built by the Five. Tall white marble columns support a brightly painted roof depicting blue water nymphs hard at work on various crafts. A short flight of steps leads into the shaded interior where cisterns are fed by pipes from an underground spring. A great many women, dressed in clothes of all colors, stand or sit on the steps, chatting with one another. Like the rest of the agora, the fountain house is as much a place for socializing as it is for any other purpose.

The women crowded on the steps shuffle to clear a path for Antiope when they see her. She thinks to insist that they not but, well, they've already moved and telling them to do otherwise would be to tell them to move again. Instead of saying anything, Antiope offers them all a smile and a nod.

Within the fountain house, there's a cluster of women waiting for space to kneel down on the mosaic floor and fill their urns and water skins and buckets and all manner of other containers. They are focused on waiting their turn and so, unlike the women on the steps, they do not see Antiope's approach.

Except for one.

As Antiope reaches the top of the steps to enter the shade of the structure, Menalippe is turned away from the cistern, watching.

Antiope meets Menalippe's brown eyes and then promptly trips on the edge of the last step. Swearing, she catches her balance quickly, but not before everyone has looked to see what the noise was. At once, they start to move aside for her. Sheepish, Antiope raises Alexa's water skin and waves it slightly. "It's fine," she says. "I'm fine. I'll wait." When the women do not immediately turn back towards the water, Antiope waves the water skin more vigorously. "Really," she says.

Even then, it takes a few more moments for them to stop staring expectantly at her. One by one though, they do return to waiting for the cistern in their small crowd. One by one—including Menalippe.

Antiope has no intention of slipping ahead of everyone who has been waiting, but so too she does not know what to do with herself as she waits. Surely she could… Surely it would violate no rules if she…

Antiope moves to stand next to but slightly behind Menalippe. Draped in a plain reddish-brown chiton, Menalippe holds herself with a poise that radiates _presence_. Her long brown hair is set in a practical braid that reaches her mid-back. Less than a pace away, that she is taller than Antiope is abundantly evident, though, really, Antiope ought to be used to being short by now. Normally, she is.

So near to Menalippe, Antiope finds herself lacking for courage. She clears her throat and presses onwards regardless. Such is her nature. "Are you well?" she asks. "Do you like it here?"

It does not escape Antiope's attention that, in turning to face her, Menalippe's gaze lingers on parts of Antiope's body that are not her face. The feeling of being _beheld_ lasts only a brief moment though, and then Menalippe takes a half-step back. She holds an urn in both hands before her. "I am well," she says, tone measured. Her dark eyes have lifted now to meet Antiope's and they bore into her with an unsettling intensity such that Antiope thinks that she would like to take a half-step back as well. She is accustomed to women, and men when they chance to cross paths with her, looking at her in a great many ways, but this is not one of them.

Antiope clears her throat again but stands her ground. "Do you lack for anything?" she asks. "If you need anything at all, please ask. The gods bid that I serve you."

Menalippe flinches. It's a very brief thing that passes so quickly Antiope almost doesn't have a chance to notice, but she's watching Menalippe far too closely to miss it. Menalippe shakes her head slightly. "I lack for nothing," she says. "Thank you for your concern." Then, she inclines her head towards the cistern where a space has opened. "But your friend needs her water, I think."

Heat rises to Antiope's cheeks. She is holding up the crowd by not taking her turn. Quickly, she mumbles an apology as she presses forward to kneel down and start filling Alexa's water skin. It takes longer to fill the water skin than it does to fill an urn and Menalippe is gone when she finishes. Slipping back out of the shaded fountain house, Antiope makes haste through the crowd without searching for her. As she walks, she shakes her head. Menalippe was right, Alexa _does_ need her water. She's waiting for Antiope.

When Antiope reaches Alexa once more, her friend practically snatches the water skin out of her hand. Alexa guzzles what must be half of it before lowering the skin from her lips. "Gods bless you, Antiope," she says. "Zeus and the Five and Ares too. I hate watching the agora."

Crowding slightly to join Alexa in the shade, Antiope shrugs. "Is it that bad?" she asks. "You get to see so many different people. I know they're not philosophers, but…"

Alexa snorts. "If _you_ liked seeing so many different people, you'd come here more often," she says. "Agora duty is wretched. I spend all my time sweating and staring and watching for pickpockets even though we hardly ever have any. If I have to come out of the library, I wish I could have a shift at the palace or on the wall. At least there's a breeze on the wall. But…" Here, she sighs. "Not important enough."

Antiope sighs too. "At least you're important enough to _have_ a job."

"Your life is so hard, _basileia_ ," Alexa replies, not without humor. "So what brings you here today? What thoughts sit in your mind?"

"I can't come and go as I please?" Antiope asks back. Only after the words have left her mouth does she realize that she might sound bitter. She shifts her weight from foot to foot and looks out towards the bustling agora.

If Antiope did sound bitter, Alexa makes no indication she noticed. She's gracious like that. "Antiope, you never come here. You live over on the field with my sister and Penthesilea."

"I'm restless," Antiope replies.

"You are always restless," Alexa remarks. "Try again."

"I had an argument with Hippolyta?" Antiope tries. Surely Alexa, who lives her life in Artemis' shadow, will show some sympathy for this.

"That too is your usual state of being," says Alexa, voice dry. "And though you are often correct, you invariably choose the wrong tactic for your battles."

Antiope huffs softly. "There's a woman?"

Alexa snorts. "There is always a woman," she says. "Poor Hippolyta will never get an heir out of you."

"She'll have to make one herself," Antiope grumbles. "It's her own fault for assuming I'd have any interest in men."

To this, Alexa wrinkles her nose. "She's getting old for that," she says. "And in her defense, most women do." Alexa pauses, then, "So tell me about this woman of yours."

Antiope grimaces. "She's not my woman," she starts.

"And therein lies the problem, I'm sure," Alexa drawls back.

Defensive, Antiope crosses her arms. "Do you remember the women that Penthesilea and I rescued two weeks ago?" she asks.

Alexa turns her head to look, somewhat accusingly, at Antiope. "You know—"

"I know," Antiope cuts in, starting to bristle.

Alexa shrugs, as if she can pretend that she didn't just question Antiope's honor. "There are other women," she says. "An entire city of them."

Antiope scowls. "Not like her," she says. "There's something about her."

Alexa raises an eyebrow. "Have you encountered this woman more than once? You remember what happened with…"

As Alexa trails off, Antiope flushes. She does indeed remember. "It's not like that," she grumbles. "And I've seen her three times now. Once on the road, once when Penthesilea was showing them the city, and once just now at the fountain house."

Alexa makes a skeptical noise, then, "Shit. Pickpocket." She shoves herself forward into the crowded agora. In an instant, she's slipped out of Antiope's sigh, lost among the market activity.

And so ends the conversation.

Left alone in the shade, Antiope sighs. It will be some time before Alexa returns, she knows. If Alexa catches the thief, she'll have to take them up to the palace. Alexa will catch the thief—even if she's not her sister, she is far stronger and more intimidating than those she is tasked to watch over. She is an Amazon, despite her preference for peace and quiet.

So, really, Alexa is not coming back.

Reluctant, Antiope shuffles back into the sun and resumes her aimless wandering.

This time though instead of dwelling on her friends beyond the walls, in her mind Antiope circles back to the fountain house. She replays the events, winds her way through what was said. She _knows_ the nature of the way Menalippe looked at her at first—she is _certain_ of it. But everything after that is confusion. At the end, when Menalippe told her to hurry with Alexa's water… Antiope can't even recall when it was that she mentioned fetching water for a friend.

Perhaps, in this, there is hope for her.

If she can forget Menalippe so easily, her infatuation will soon pass.

[] [] []

While Antiope may hope that her infatuation will soon burn out, she has little hope that her sister's interdict on her freedom will lift anytime soon. That would likely require an apology and Antiope does not believe in apologizing for being right.

At dinner, Antiope sits by herself at the high table, picking at her food. Penthesilea has not yet returned from the hunt that she and the rest of Antiope's comrades left on earlier. It was a larger hunt than usual. The Amazons left in the hall are the ones who are older and the ones who have no interest in fighting monsters. Hippolyta and Philippus are absent too, no doubt attending to some sort of work on behalf of the city. It is lonely where Antiope is, even though the hall itself is filled with the chatter of her sisters.

Staring at a piece of pale cheese, Antiope is broken from her swirling morass of self-pitying thoughts by a clatter to her right. Alexa has come up to the high table and is sitting down in Penthesilea's place. This draws no protest from Antiope. She's thankful for company and Penthesilea and Alexa get along far better with one another than with almost anyone else, save maybe for Antiope. Alexa is more than welcome to Penthesilea's seat when it's otherwise unoccupied.

"I didn't realize you enjoyed boredom," Antiope says.

To this, Alexa rolls her eyes. She has scrubbed herself clean from her day of standing guard in the sweltering heat, sweating, and her dreadlocked hair is still damp. "So this woman," she begins, prompting.

Antiope shakes her head. She pops the piece of cheese into her mouth, chews, swallows. "I need to stop thinking about her," she says. "It won't go anywhere."

Alexa elbows Antiope. "You need to stop thinking about being stuck in this city," she says. "And it's not a true rule. You could always track her down and talk to her. Being friendly can't hurt."

Antiope's eyes narrow at her friend. "That's what Penthesilea said."

Alexa scrunches up her face in response. "Is it? In that case, forget I said anything. It's probably a bad idea after all." From her tone, it's hard to tell if she means what she says.

Antiope reaches out for her goblet of wine and takes a deep draught of the sweet liquid. She sets the cup down and frowns. "Is it? If you and Penthesilea agree…"

Alexa huffs. "Does it matter? Has something being a bad idea ever stopped you?"

[] [] []

Antiope takes Alexa's suggestion and sleeps on it.

She mulls it over the next day, and the day after that.

And then, as another party go riding off from the field go venture beyond the walls of the city, Antiope makes up her mind.

[] [] []

It would be a simple thing to find Menalippe if she were an Amazon. Though very few of their number live in the palace itself, most live near it and all are required to report to a _lochagos_ , even those who have found their way into professions that do not call for arms. To find an Amazon is an easy matter in Themyscira.

To find anyone else, however, is like looking for a needle in a haystack. The city was large when the Five made it and since then it has only grown. What's more, Antiope, being Antiope, cannot make inquiries without drawing attention to herself. She would rather not draw attention to herself, not now. Drawing attention to herself in the abstract almost always ends in drawing Hippolyta's attention in the particular and she's had enough of Hippolyta's attention for a good while.

She could ask for help from a friend, she knows. She could ask Alexa, even. But she is not inclined to do so. This venture, to her, is something to _do_. To keep her occupied. She will not give it over.

Antiope sits and she thinks and after much thought she decides on her strategy.

When newcomers arrive in Themyscira, arrangements are made for them to have shelter and food and some sort of occupation. This is part of the charge given to the Amazons by the Five. It is not a simple thing to find Menalippe, but it is a simple thing to find an Amazon. Antiope goes to the overseer in charge of making the arrangements.

She grins and she says that she is merely wanting to check in on the whole group of women she and her friends brought. Sitting behind a desk, more than a little harried, very abundantly distracted, the overseer comments on Antiope's commendable responsibility and marks up a list for her.

For appearances' sake, Antiope starts with several of the women whose names she doesn't even remember. The list helps, somewhat. The women blur together though. None of them leave an impression. They thank Antiope profusely, she grins at them and says gallant things, and then she leaves. She spends the better part of a morning doing this, eats a lunch purchased in the agora, and then turns to her actual goal.

Menalippe, according to Antiope's list, is working as a weaver.

There are three loom houses in the city and they are none of them close to one another. No one knows Menalippe at the first, nor is she at the second. It is growing late in the afternoon when Antiope arrives at the third and Neaira tells her that Menalippe left a scant few minutes ago, saying something about an errand.

Antiope must do a poor job of hiding her disappointment from her face because Neaira laughs at her. She reaches out and musses Antiope's hair, despite its braid. "You like her, do you?" Neaira asks. "It's late. She'll be here tomorrow if you get here earlier."

"I didn't mean to arrive so late," Antiope mutters. "I just…"

"I'll let her know you came," Neaira says.

Antiope quickly shakes her head. She can tell that her face is going red and there's nothing she can do about it. "No, that's not…"

"She mentioned seeing you the other day," Neaira says. "I'd say if you like her, it wouldn't be hard to convince her to like you back."

Antiope clears her throat. "I was only checking in with _everyone_ from a few weeks ago," she says.

Antiope has never in her life seen someone look so unconvinced as Neaira now. Her kind smile summons up a twinge of guilt in Antiope's chest for trying to not-quite-lie.

Or perhaps the feeling is embarrassment.

"Of course," Neaira says. "I'll let her know."

Very much done with being embarrassed, Antiope nods and takes her leave hastily. It's not until she's sure that she's out of sight of the loom house that she lets herself slump. Having spent such effort on her endeavor, she'd been looking forward to seeing Menalippe again. To have walked the city so many times and then been thwarted by bad timing—it feels almost comical.

Fate was not on her side.

At least though… at least she didn't spend the entire day brooding. And she'll have something to do tomorrow.

No sooner has Antiope's mind turned to her lack of brooding than she begins again to brood.

As much as she was able to take her mind off things today, her situation is unchanged. Tomorrow, she'll still be under orders to remain in the city with every guard alerted to the queen's order. And the day after? The same. And so too the day after that, and the day after that…

Antiope scowls and kicks lightly at a stray rock on the ground. It clatters over the paved street. When she catches up to where she's kicked it, she kicks her pebble again. She directs herself generally back towards the palace, but she takes a winding way, following after her pebble. Antiope is in no hurry to go back to her sisters.

She's about to pass a group of women raising a house. They have most of the frame assembled and they're bringing a load of wood up to set as rafters. She's lost in thought.

Someone grabs the collar of her tunic and yanks her back, hard. The fabric jerks into Antiope's neck, choking her.

She acts on instinct.

She grabs her attacker, throws them to the ground, gets a knee down on their sternum and her razor-sharp knife at their throat, all in the space of a heartbeat.

Antiope blinks. Her attacker is familiar to her. Dark eyes, not afraid. She blinks again. "Menalippe?"

That's when the load of wood goes crashing to the street below.

Swearing, Antiope twists around to look at the place where she would have been if Menalippe hadn't unceremoniously accosted her. Flattened. She would have been _flattened_. _Maimed_ , if not killed outright. The women who were working on the house are shouting, panicked. A rope snapped.

Was anyone hurt?

No one was hurt.

Antiope was almost hurt. But she wasn't. Because Menalippe _knew the rope would snap?_

Slow, Antiope gets up. She offers Menalippe a hand. She's not sure what to say. Maybe an apology?

"You're welcome," Menalippe says in her deep voice with her strange accent. Her neck, thankfully, shows no sign of Antiope's blade. Antiope hadn't pressed down. She rubs her chest where Antiope had a knee in it even as she takes Antiope's hand.

Menalippe's hand is calloused and strong. Her skin is warm. Her grip is firm. Her _touch_ leaves Antiope wanting.

"What?" Antiope finally manages. Perhaps it's her imagination, but she thinks that Menalippe's hand lingers on hers even after she's stood up and it's time for them both to let go.

No.

Like the look at the fountain house, Antiope is sure that it is not her imagination.

Menalippe's brow furrows. "I…" she starts. "You said… You were going to say… I'm sorry. I was confused." Shaking her head, she starts to turn to walk away.

If Menalippe is confused, her confusion no doubt pales in comparison to Antiope's. Antiope does not like being confused and she does not mean to remain confused. She reaches out and grabs Menalippe's wrist. "You just saved my life," she says.

Menalippe turns back towards Antiope. She glances over at the timbers littering the street, then to Antiope's hand on her wrist, then up to Antiope, and then _away_ to a patch of dirt. Her cheeks are slightly flushed. "Probably," she says. "I think."

"How did you know the rope would break?" Antiope presses. She takes a step towards Menalippe and does not let go of her wrist. There's a sharp sense of anticipation in her that's hard to put a finger on.

Menalippe frowns. Her frown doesn't seem angry or anything of the sort. Mostly it just seems frustrated. "It's hard to explain," she says. She shrugs slightly. She is studiously avoiding meeting Antiope's eyes. "Sometimes I know things."

"You have the Sight?" Antiope asks. On the word ' _Sight,_ ' Menalippe flinches slightly.

"Not exactly," says Menalippe.

"You're a witch?" Antiope tries. She doesn't mean it as a threat. She thinks Menalippe takes it as such though, because she tries to pull her wrist back. Only then, belatedly, does Antiope realize that she is probably holding onto Menalippe with more strength than she ought to touch a mortal, human, woman with. Menalippe is not an Amazon. Antiope lets go.

"No," Menalippe says. "I just know things." She massages her wrist gently. Antiope's grip has left a mark.

Antiope grimaces. "I'm sorry," she says, gesturing vaguely towards the injury. She finishes the gesture by raising her hand and shoving it into her hair awkwardly. "I didn't mean to."

Antiope would like to say more, to apologize more forcefully, but she's already used enough force, she thinks, and she is unaccustomed to the finer points of expressing regret. For this moment, for Menalippe, she almost wishes she'd spent more of her life practicing how to ask pardon.

"I..." Menalippe starts. The slight flush in her cheeks has visibly darkened. Then, "It's fine." She shifts her weight from foot to foot, uneasy. "My lord Hermes tried to give me the Sight," she says, voice firm. "He didn't get it quite right. He is not a god of prophecy. He sent me here as an apology. I think."

Antiope tilts her head slightly. Menalippe speaks with such confidence. It's not clear if she's speaking truthfully or if she is truthfully misinformed about the world. "We rescued you from slavers," Antiope says, slowly.

"My lord is many-turning and works in very peculiar ways," Menalippe replies. "He is a cattle-stealer."

That, Antiope supposes, she will grant. Hermes is a strange deity. She clears her throat. "I owe you my thanks and my life," she says, shifting the conversation. "I have asked before if you need anything, but I ask now if there is there anything I can do to repay you?"

Menalippe's answer is blunt. "I am not in need nor am I in want of anything. As I have said." Perhaps reacting to hearing how blunt she sounded, she pauses and then quickly adds, "Your people are very welcoming."

Antiope shrugs. "We were created by the gods to grant women refuge. We've become very good at it."

Menalippe takes a step back. "I should go," she says.

Antiope takes a step forward. "Where are you going?"

"Dinner," Menalippe says. "Bread. I need to buy bread."

"Come eat with me," Antiope offers. She holds out her hand, a gesture of invitation. She would like very much to eat dinner with Menalippe and, unless she has read Menalippe wrongly, she thinks Menalippe will say yes.

Menalippe hesitates. They are quite close now. She starts to lift her hand towards Antiope's, but then she stops. She squints at Antiope slightly—except she's looking somewhere _past_ Antiope rather than at her. She's silent for a while, then pulls her hand back. "No, I don't think so," she says firmly. "That would not end well."

"Oh," Antiope says. She says it before she has the sense to hide her disappointment. She thought…

"I'm sorry," Menalippe says. "It's just not a good idea." She says it like she means it. But Antiope has the sense that Menalippe says everything like she means it. And maybe she does mean everything she says.

"I understand," Antiope says. She doesn't. She is not like Menalippe. She does not always mean everything she says.

"Good," Menalippe says. "Thank you." She backs up again. "I should go now."

"Right," says Antiope. "Goodbye."

And then that's it. And then Menalippe turns and walks away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Defying Tomorrow: Chapter Three**

* * *

At dinner, Antiope eschews her sister's grand table in favor of setting herself down next to Alexa and a few of Alexa's friends. Antiope doesn't know them well—though Alexa is roughly Antiope's age, her friends are younger and, like Alexa, they tend to stick to less martial pursuits but, unlike Alexa, they don't have older sisters demanding they train in the fields and take turns on guard duties. At Antiope's approach, the group of them goes from laughing loudly to quiet.

Feeling put on the spot by the reaction her presence has provoked, Antiope rubs the back of her neck and grins. Normally her sister Amazons don't defer in her presence—the older Amazons will sometimes outright ignore her—but Alexa's gathering have no rank. She's not sure what to say to them. She ought to say that they shouldn't stop on her account, but it does feel good to be acknowledged for once.

"Antiope," Alexa greets warmly. Seated on a bench at one of the long tables in the hall, she raises her cup to Antiope. Still standing, Antiope has the vantage to see that the cup has water instead of wine. Alexa's not much for drinking. Next to Alexa, one of her group scoots over to make room for Antiope. In turn, Antiope sits down on the wood bench beside her friend. "What brings you to our corner of the hall?" Alexa asks.

The novelty of being respected by her sister Amazons has worn off quickly. Antiope doesn't like that the quiet around her means that everyone is listening for what she's about to say as if it's important. It's not—and she's going to make sure the eavesdroppers around her realize that. "Where's the library?" Antiope asks. She knows perfectly well where the library is, but, well, getting an answer isn't the point of her asking.

Alexa stares at her with a mixture of disappointment and pity. "Really, Antiope?" she asks.

Antiope supposes that her asking where the library is does sound a lot like a question she might genuinely ask. She swallows and nods enthusiastically.

Alexa's eyes narrow. "This is about the _thing_ , isn't it," she says, drawing out her words suspiciously.

Antiope pauses. "The thing?"

Alexa sighs. "I'll escort you there after dinner," she says. "And maybe I'll even show you how to get a scroll down from the shelves. Do you know how to read?"

Antiope huffs and crosses her arms. " _Yes_ ," she insists. "I didn't skip all of our lessons. Just… most of them. The boring ones."

"And you've only been kicked in the head by a horse a few dozen times," Alexa drawls in reply, rolling her eyes.

Antiope scrunches her nose. "Don't call your queen names like that," she says.

This finally draws a quiet laugh from Alexa's friends who are still listening to their conversation intently. It's a quiet laugh, but it's enough. It takes little work then to get them talking and laughing amongst one another again. Even so, Antiope waits until she and Alexa are leaving dinner and headed towards the library to broach her actual question.

Walking along a quiet palace portico towards one of the gates out to the rest of the city, thumbs hooked in her belt, Antiope asks, "Alexa, do you know much about oracles? People with the Sight?" Torches set in sconces at regular intervals cast flickering shadows all about. The evening air is cool. It will be night soon.

Alexa's step falters slightly. Walking side by side with Antiope, she shifts to stare at Antiope as they walk. "Oracles?" she repeats. "I thought this was about the thing?"

"What thing?" Antiope asks in return.

"The thing," Alexa says. "The thing with the woman."

"Menalippe," Antiope mutters. Then, "It is. I found her, I talked to her, she said she can see the future." They are about to pass now through the palace gate. Antiope lowers her voice. It's too quiet for the guards at the gate not to hear their conversation. When guards hear Antiope's conversations, it always gets back to Hippolyta. Antiope wonders if she gets a report every morning cataloging everything anyone has seen Antiope do the previous day. It's more likely than not.

Alexa waits until they're out on the street beyond the palace and out of earshot. "What was your conversation that she told you she sees the future?" Alexa asks. She sounds like she doesn't believe Antiope—or Menalippe.

Antiope clears her throat. "I didn't find her," she admits. She glances away, towards the blank wall of a house as they pass. They're headed in the direction of the grand library of Themyscira, but at a very leisurely pace such that they'll arrive there long after Clio has locked her doors. "She found me. I was about to walk under a house-raising and she pulled me out of the way of falling timbers."

Alexa looks to Antiope and winces. "Construction accidents are dangerous," she says, tone suggesting that she's stating the obvious for Antiope's benefit.

To that, Antiope shrugs. She is well aware that she should have been looking where she was going. The adrenaline of near-death is not quickly forgotten, even by her.

Alexa responds with a sigh and then a sort of contemplative humming noise. "Oracles are individuals chosen by particular gods to convey their prophecies," she starts. "You know, of course, of Zeus' oracle at Dodona and Apollo's Pythia at Delphi. Those oracles are not quite the same as individuals with the Sight though. The Sight is a god-given gift, as all gifts are. But, according to those who have knowledge of these things, the Sight isn't directed by a particular god the way an oracle's prophecies are. There's something either random or fated about it—the writings I've seen are all rather unsatisfactory about that point. It's a very rare gift, so rare that scholars may just be calling all things that are not oracles 'Sight,' and no one's managed to thoroughly study it."

Antiope takes Alexa's words and she mulls them over. She's glad to have gone to Alexa. Alexa is a know-it-all who actually does know everything. Around them, night has fallen, though it's early enough and there's light from the moon and stars enough that there are still a few women wandering the streets. Under the aegis of Hippolyta and the Amazons, Themyscira is the safest city in Greece. It is one of the few cities where walking about at night doesn't invite violence.

"So it sounds as though this woman, Menalippe, has the Sight?" Alexa prompts. "If she does, I would like to meet her." Quickly, she adds, "I'm sure I would like to meet her even if she doesn't." The way she says it casts doubts on her sincerity, but Antiope ignores the not-quite-truth as harmless. Antiope is probably lucky that she befriended Alexa before Alexa learned how to read, otherwise there wouldn't have been any room left in Alexa's life for her.

Antiope shrugs. "She said it wasn't the Sight, that she just knows things."

"She's almost certainly wrong," Alexa replies immediately. She pauses, then, "Though she can doubtless say better than I. But 'I just know things' is the Sight. She may be assuming the Sight is something easier to work with than it is." Alexa pauses. They're at a street crossing. Alexa indicates with a tip of her head one direction. "The library is that way," she says. "But my sister's house is in the other direction." Her eyes narrow. "Did you actually not know where it was? I couldn't tell if you were serious."

"I knew where it was," Antiope replies, voice plaintive.

Alexa doesn't look like she quite believes Antiope, but Antiope isn't sure what she can do to change that.

"I'm going to proceed home then," Alexa says. Then, "Antiope…"

"What is it?" Antiope asks.

"The Sight is a rare gift and it _is_ almost always connected to some kind of fate," Alexa says. " _Hippolyta_ would take an interest if she knew."

Standing at the cross-street, Antiope shifts her weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable. "You say that like I should tell her."

From Alexa's silence, Antiope reads affirmation.

"Would you tell Artemis?" Antiope asks. She doesn't like the thought of dragging Menalippe into the fire of Hippolyta's attention. It is not a pleasant place to be; she knows from experience. This was not a place she'd expected their conversation to go and she doesn't know what to do now.

Alexa shakes her head, but it's not to say no. Instead, "Our situations are comparable sometimes. This is not one of those times."

As Alexa departs for her sister's house, Antiope is left alone with a heavy dread in the pit of her stomach. She grimaces. Perhaps, she thinks, it's the sort of dread that can be remedied with the judicious application of a second opinion. If that's the case then she knows exactly who'll disagree with Alexa for her.

[] [] []

"She sees the future," Antiope says.

Penthesilea, lounging on an opulent couch in her quarters in the palace, shoots Antiope a confused look. "Who?"

"Menalippe. I was about to die. She saved my life," Antiope says. She's sitting cross-legged on Penthesilea's bed, elbows resting on her knees. It's late morning. They would normally both be down on the training fields, but it's the Amazons' weekly day of rest. Preparing for battle and for war is not something that can be done every day of every week of every year, to Antiope's eternal disappointment.

"What in Themyscira was going to kill you?" Penthesilea asks, incredulous. It's a fair question. Within the walls of the city, mortal danger is a rare thing.

"There was construction," Antiope says. She gestures, somewhat wildly. She's speaking as much with her hands as she is with her voice. The way she communicates with her half-sister is slightly different from the way she talks to everyone else. "A rope broke. She pulled me out of the way before the rope broke."

"And now you think she can see the future?" Penthesilea says, still clearly unconvinced. "She was probably just paying more attention to where she was going than you."

"I asked her," Antiope replies. "She said that she doesn't have the Sight but knows what's about to happen because Hermes is bad at fortunetelling."

"Huh," grunts Penthesilea. "I'm not sure what's stranger, that you asked or that she answered."

"I'm being serious," Antiope protests. She crosses her arms. "Alexa believed me."

Penthesilea grunts again, then sits up. The mention of Alexa, it seems, has gotten her attention. She squints at Antiope. "Truthfully? Mortals don't just… see the future."

"Yes, truthfully," Antiope insists. "And mortals do see the future. Pythia is most lucrative pilgrimage in Greece. Even Hippolyta's been. Who's to say Hermes can't have an oracle too?" Distantly, she recalls that Alexa had tried to explain that oracles were… a separate class of future-seeing people, but the distinction doesn't seem relevant in the here and now.

Penthesilea flops back down onto her couch. "Huh," she says again. "Do you think she can See—"

Antiope doesn't know how Penthesilea will finish her sentence—she's not a Seer—but she has an idea and she makes the decision to head her half-sister off. "Alexa thought I should tell Hippolyta," she says. "Something about fate."

Penthesilea remains sprawled out on her couch. "You could," she says. "But she'll overreact. As soon as you say ' _fate_ ' she'll summon the council and start making sacrifices."

"That is her job," Antiope ventures, not putting even half her heart into it. Penthesilea is saying exactly what Antiope wanted her to say.

"We don't have to be involved," Penthesilea replies. She pauses then rolls over to look at Antiope, "Though Alexa is probably right and you probably should tell Hippolyta."

Antiope considers Penthesilea with narrowed eyes. It is a rare thing indeed for her to suggest that they tell Hippolyta anything. This is also decidedly _not_ what Antiope came to Penthesilea for. She came to Penthesilea expecting reassurance against the seeds of doubt that Alexa planted. That Penthesilea and Alexa should agree on something twice in the space of a week is ridiculous.

Sensing Antiope's skepticism, Penthesilea shrugs, "What if she Sees something important someday?"

Antiope answers with a scowl. "I suppose," she says. Her reluctance to cause trouble for Menalippe hasn't lessened since Alexa first suggested Hippolyta be involved. She thinks that her sister will doubtless drag the poor woman up to the palace for a summary interrogation. She doesn't want to be responsible for that.

"I'm serious," Penthesilea says. "You should tell Hippolyta." She sits up. It's clear she's quickly becoming taken with the idea. If Antiope doesn't knock it out of her head now, she's likely to go off on her own and once she has momentum there's nothing that can stop her.

"I know," Antiope replies, her words a frustrated exhalation. "But I don't want to." Antiope also doesn't quite want to dissuade her half-sister. If Penthesilea does it, then it wasn't Antiope's fault.

"I'll do it then," Penthesilea says. She starts to push herself up to her feet. "Right now."

Antiope grimaces. If Penthesiela does it and it's not Antiope's fault—it's not Antiope's nature to let things play out like that. She shoves off of Penthesilea's bed. "Fine," she says. "We'll do it together."

Side by side they travel through the vast palace. Like Antiope, Penthesilea has lived her entire life calling the palace home. Her mother, Laomache, died fighting back to back with Queen Otrera. A sixteen-year-old Hippolyta then claimed Laomache's daughter for her own house. Together, Antiope and Penthesilea know all the shortcuts and they take the fastest route to Hippolyta's throne room. There's a long line of petitioners waiting outside but when the guards see them, they're ushered in ahead of everyone else.

Being the queen's kin, though it is often a great deal of trouble to Antiope, does have one benefit: when it comes to Hippolyta and her family, few are keen to interpose. Most of the guards enthusiastically trust that if Hippolyta's _basileia_ abuse their privilege then that is a matter for Hippolyta to address, and Hippolyta alone. Though a few of the guards take their charge of protecting Hippolyta to include not just protecting her sisters but also protecting her from her sisters, none of that group are stationed overseeing petitioners today.

Hippolyta glances at them as they enter the shining hall of the throne room. She finishes quickly with the small group of women arguing over the placement of a well in one of the city's outlying villages and instructs them to tell the guards controlling entrance to the hall that she will see no one else until she addresses Antiope and Penthesilea.

Seated on her throne, Hippolyta is, in a word, regal. She wears white and she wears gold and her crown, crafted by the Five for the first queen of the Amazons, is a glittering masterpiece of splendor. So too is the belt that she wears, a gift made by Hephaestus in steel and gold for Ares' favored daughter. All around her, the trappings of the royal room gleam in a glory of sunlight streaming in from enormous angled windows set high in the walls. Behind her seat, instead of stone, is air—the grand hall looks out over the city its queen rules. Standing on either side of her are two of her personal guards, dark-haired Episteme and one-eyed Techne, dressed in white and gold to mirror her.

"What is it?" Hippolyta asks. Her tone betrays nothing of her disposition towards them. As queen enthroned, she is carefully even-keeled. There is no trace of the anger that she showed to Antiope in the field weeks ago.

In the years since Hippolyta took the throne, she's become very good at her role.

If Antiope had a place, had a duty, would she too become her station?

Almost imperceptibly, Penthesilea fades behind Antiope.

Though Penthesilea is kin, _Antiope_ is Hippolyta's full-blood sister.

Antiope clears her throat and squares her shoulders. The memory of Penthesilea's disbelief is close. As much as she doesn't want Hippolyta to believe her and so to drop the entire matter, she also does not want Hippolyta to think that she is mad or, worse, a waste of time. "My queen," she begins. "One of the refuge-seekers has… something that is not quite the Sight."

Alexa called it the Sight. Antiope prefers here and now to use Menalippe's words.

Hippolyta leans forward, brow furrowed. "Explain," she orders, voice sharp. When Hippolyta turns her attention to something, she turns her _full_ attention to it.

"I was walking beneath a house that was being built," Antiope says, launching into the same story she's told to both Alexa and Penthesilea now. In the same way that she changed her telling for Penthesilea, she changes it now again for Hippolyta. "She pulled me back. After she pulled me back, a rope snapped. I would have died. I asked her how she knew the rope would break and she said that she knew, but that it wasn't the Sight. She said that Hermes tried to give her the Sight but did it poorly and gave her something else instead."

"I see," Hippolyta says. She frowns. She drums her fingers on the arm of her throne once, twice. "I would like to meet this woman. Bring her to me. Today—there are fewer petitioners than usual today."

Antiope opens her mouth to tell Hippolyta not to harass Menalippe, but Hippolyta cuts her off with a shake of her head. "I mean her no harm," Hippolyta says. "But I need to know what she can See. This is a matter of state. And I would like to thank her if she did indeed save my sister's life." Hippolyta blue eyes flicker now to Penthesilea. "And I suppose I should thank you as well for ensuring this was brought to my attention in a timely manner."

Penthesilea looks away and shrugs.

Antiope closes her mouth, pacified, for the time being.

"I hope this new-found responsibility lingers about both of you," Hippolyta remarks, voice dry. "It is a… pleasant surprise."

Antiope and Penthesilea both bow to Hippolyta, muttering, "My queen," in unison.

It's not until they've retreated from the throne room and gone well out of sight of Hippolyta's guards that Penthesilea elbows Antiope and says, "That wasn't so bad."

"It could have been worse," Antiope concedes, leading the way down the palace steps. She scoffs slightly. Even so, she's fighting back a smile. It feels good to have Hippolyta's approval for once. "I hope she doesn't expect more responsibility."

"We've spent our entire lives disappointing her," Penthesilea replies. "I'm sure she's used to it by now."

"She sounded so hopeful this time," Antiope says.

"She should know better," Penthesilea returns.

[] [] []

They find Menalippe in the loom-house. Unlike when Antiope went searching for her alone, she is present and easily found. What's more, considering how quickly she disengages from her work upon their arrival, Antiope is left with the distinct impression that she was waiting for them.

"My sister, Hippolyta, the queen has asked to see you," Antiope says. She does not like how difficult she finds speaking when in Menalippe's presence. Everything that comes out of her mouth seems awkwardly angular and clumsy. She is not accustomed to being so self-conscious unprovoked.

"Do you really see the future?" Penthesilea asks. Lacking in manners, she reaches out to poke at the loom Menalippe was working on. Whatever she was weaving, she hasn't made enough progress yet to show any particular design.

Antiope scowls. If Penthesilea doubted it, why did she insist they tell Hippolyta?

Putting away her thread, Menalippe gives a small shrug. "Sometimes," she says.

"Fascinating," Penthesilea says. She leans in towards Menalippe ever so slightly as she says it.

Antiope feels a sudden urge to push Penthesilea back. She resists. When Menalippe has finished ordering her work, Antiope gestures for the three of them to go. "Come," she says. "The palace is not far."

It isn't far. It's very obviously not far. Menalippe, doubtless, knows where the palace is and how far it is because the palace is one of the most visible buildings in the entire city. Antiope's face flushes. She turns quickly and heads for the door of the loom-house.

Behind Antiope's retreating back, Penthesilea, with all the ease and grace Antiope can't find, "You seem to be fitting in well here."

"This is a good place," Menalippe replies in her characteristic voice of utter certainty.

Antiope pauses and makes a half-turn so she can look backwards. As Penthesilea and Menalippe catch up to her, she slips between them.

Penthesilea starts, "You're very-"

Antiope's foot finds its way to land on top of Penthesilea's. The resulting scuffle silences whatever else it was Penthesilea was going to say.

There's a noise from one of the nearby looms—it's Neaira, muffling laughter without success. Antiope glares.

Penthesilea clears her throat. "Antiope thinks very highly of you."

There's a long pause. The long pause turns into the most awkward silence Antiope has ever endured and it lasts until they've passed through the palace gates and reached the gleaming white steps of the palace itself. It was, as Antiope had said, not far.

Penthesilea quickens her step slightly and takes the lead past the armored guards at the palace gates. The guards outside the gates are drawn from the army and not from one the company permanently assigned to Hippolyta and the palace interior. Antiope does not know them well, and, likewise, they are not as familiar with Antiope and her half-sister as the guards who are permanently assigned to the palace and the queen. They stiffen as the small group pass, seemingly caught between coming to attention for the _basileia_ and carrying out their orders to scrutinize everyone, regardless of rank.

From what Antiope can read of body language, she thinks that Menalippe seems uncomfortable. As they cross the threshold of the palace complex, she's tense and her eyes linger on the guards and their weapons instead of where she's going or the splendor of their surroundings.

This time, when they come to the doors of Hippolyta's throne room, one of the Amazons controlling the flow of petitioners stops them. Antiope recognizes her as Alkyone, the _lochagos_ of Hippolyta's personal guard. The former master of the armory, several years ago she was promoted to her current post, like all members of Hippolyta's personal guard, in recognition of her _devotion_ —meaning, in her case, taking an arrow meant for Hippolyta in an assassination attempt paid for by the Athenians. Antiope has sparred with her a few times. Alkyone is not the strongest Amazon by any stretch of the imagination, nor is she the most skilled at arms. She is, however, somewhat unsettling in her ceaseless intensity and Antiope prefers to give her a wide berth whenever possible. While most of Hippolyta's personal guard tend to see Antiope as a free-floating extension of Hippolyta, Alkyone and a handful of others treat her more like a threat.

" _Basileia_ ," Alkyone greets to Antiope and Penthesilea. Her voice has an edge of harshness as she address them—but it always has that edge so there's nothing that can be read from it. Dressed in a white uniform that gleams with gold, she looks every inch a part of the formality and ceremony that permeate the palace complex. "Newcomer," she says to Menalippe. Her eyes flicker over them, lingering in all the places weapons are normally carried or concealed. Today, Antiope is unarmed. Alkyone then inclines her helmet-clad head towards a bench by the far wall, away from the small crowd of waiting petitioners. "She will see you when she finishes with her other duties."

Antiope glances at Penthesilea. Penthesilea glances at Antiope. Antiope shrugs. It is self-evidently reasonable that Hippolyta make them wait behind those who have come seeking her authority. As queen, her responsibilities are many. She works before breakfast, during the day, after dinner, and late into the night. There's been a proposal for some time among the Amazons that Hippolyta delegate some of her duties to others and every year she says that she's more and more inclined to do so. On occasion, it's even suggested that Antiope be given some share of Hippolyta's load. The entire city comes to her with every small quarrel and it wears on her.

But, even as a child, Hippolyta was never one to share.

In the here and now, Antiope's _gut_ is suddenly uneasy. Maybe it's the tone of Alkyone' voice. Maybe it's something in her body language, the way she's wary even though she knows them to be friends. But that's just the manner of guards, isn't it? More likely, it's Alkyone's presence itself. Sometimes Antiope thinks that Alkyone's antipathy could best be explained by a particular dislike for Antiope as an individual.

Antiope leads Penthesilea and Menalippe over to the bench where Alkyone directed them. Slowly, the group of petitioners thins as they are admitted a few at a time and Hippolyta deals with their problems. Antiope notes that new arrivals are being turned away entirely by the guards.

Antiope's unease grows. She bounces one leg up and down, her heel drumming a soft rhythm into the polished marble floor.

"You're both nervous," Menalippe says.

"No," Antiope says.

"Yes," Penthesilea says at the same time.

By the doors to the throne room, the last of the petitioners leaves. The guards do not summon them.

"Hippolyta is up to something," Penthesilea says.

"You don't need to be nervous," Menalippe says. She says it with a level of confidence that actually does smooth Antiope's nerves somewhat, though not much.

"Have you Seen something?" Antiope asks. If Menalippe can pull Antiope out of the way of a load of falling timber, surely she can also pull Antiope out of Hippolyta's way too.

Menalippe shrugs. "She is your sister, is she not?"

It is decidedly not an answer to Antiope's question.

" _Basileia_ ," Alkyone calls out from the throne room doors. Two other guards are opening them. "You may present the newcomer now."

Antiope stands quickly, turns, starts to hold her hand out to help Menalippe up from the bench-

Menalippe has already stood.

Antiope quickly converts her gesture into a raising of her hand towards her hair. Together, the three of them go to the throne room doors and enter. As they cross the threshold, they order themselves. Antiope walks first, then Menalippe, then Penthesilea.

Behind Antiope, she hears a sharp inhale of breath.

Sometimes, having grown up in the seat of the Themysciran queens, Antiope forgets exactly how grand parts of the palace truly are.

As before, Hippolyta sits on her throne, regal. Philippus stands, stone faced, beside her. Hippolyta's usual guards are nowhere to be seen. Antiope halts their group several paces away and, following custom, waits for Hippolyta to speak first.

"Antiope," Hippolyta says. Her eyes flicker away from her sister and Antiope takes this as instruction to step aside slightly. "And you are Menalippe?"

"Yes," Menalippe replies. There's a moment of hesitation before she ventures, " _Anassa_."

Hippolyta's eyebrows rise. "Queen is quite fine," she says. "Tell me, Menalippe, who is your mother?"

Menalippe hesitates, slightly. Antiope notices and so she's sure that Hippolyta notices too. "My mother was called Nomia," Menalippe answers.

"Menalippe, daughter of Nomia, I am Hippolyta, daughter of Otrera, queen of the Amazons of Themyscira." She inclines her head to indicate Philippus beside her. "This is my _strategos_ , Philippus, heir of Egeria." Looking back to Menalippe, she continues, "I have heard that you can glimpse the future and you have used this gift to save my sister's life."

In Hippolyta's voice, Antiope can hear her trying to moderate her tone, trying to sound welcoming. In Antiope's opinion, her sister ought to try harder.

To Hippolyta's words, Menalippe does not reply. Hippolyta has not phrased them in such a way that they invite reply. In this, she has much practice.

"Antiope is my nearest of kin and so you have my thanks," Hippolyta says. "As queen though, it is a matter of state that I know your intentions before I welcome you into my house as a guest. Fate does not create your kind lightly."

There's a tension in Menalippe's shoulders that is unlike her. Even covered in the dirt and muck of the road surrounded by the still-warm bodies of slavers she was calm. _Nerves_ are not a thing that Antiope has come to associate with her. Nevertheless, the hesitation and tension speak of _nerves_ and Menalippe's nerves make Antiope anxious as well—or, rather, _more_ anxious. She was well and truly anxious enough by her own devices. "My lord Hermes," she begins, "Gave me this… knack. Fleet-footed Hermes does most things lightly."

Hippolyta stands from her throne and begins to descend from its dais. Her every movement is carefully controlled and bespeaks her dignity. Her white cloak was made for her and her alone; it just hangs from her shoulders to just above the floor, not quite touching the ground. She walks forward until she stands only a few feet from Menalippe. They are near to the same height, though Hippolyta's shoes lift her slightly and so she appears taller. To Menalippe's credit, she doesn't flinch as Hippolyta examines her. Having been on the receiving end of Hippolyta's usually well-meaning intensity for her entire life, Antiope understands well what it feels like to be stared at by the queen.

Hippolyta starts, "If you allow, I—"

"You may," Menlaippe replies. She is still tense, still on edge, but her voice betrays nothing but certainty.

Taken aback at being interrupted and being _preempted_ , Hippolyta blinks rapidly. Her recovery is quick though. She nods. "I apologize that this is necessary," she says. Then, she glances back towards the throne. "Philippus?"

Antiope begins to protest even before she sees Philippus step forward. "Hippolyta, what are-"

" _Basileia_ ," Hippolyta says. She says it with enough force to silence Antiope. "This is a matter of _state_." She beckons now to Philippus, who has come to stand beside her. Philippus, dressed in the dark armor of the Amazonian army, has a golden rope in her hands. She hands it to Hippolyta.

Antiope has seen the Lasso of Hestia only a few times in her life. It stays always under heavy guard deep in the vaults of the palace. Her grandmother used it often, her mother rarely, and Hippolyta almost never at all. The power of it does not sit well with anyone who places value in freedom of will. It is a savage tool from a savage age and Hippolyta, despite the warlike god-blood in her veins, has fashioned herself as a queen of peace.

Antiope's anger, her gift from their shared father, sparks. Bristling, she steps forward, shoving herself in front of Menalippe. "That is _not_ necessary."

"You overstep, _basileia_ ," Philippus says flatly. Her tone threatens. She can and will remove Antiope if Hippolyta orders.

Antiope looks back, towards Penthesilea.

Antiope's half-sister avoids her eyes.

 _Coward_.

Antiope is rounding again on Hippolyta when a hand on her shoulder stops her. Menalippe. "It's fine," she says softly.

Two words—two words and Antiope's rage is bleeding away. She scowls. She is not happy. But neither is she angry. Not anymore. It's a strange feeling, for the anger to go so quickly.

"Your hand," Hippolyta says. She pauses, then adds, "Please."

Antiope steps aside. Menalippe steps forward. She holds out her hand. Hippolyta wraps a bit of the lasso around her wrist. Moving of its own accord, it fixes itself there, shining metal fusing itself into an unbroken loop.

"This will only hurt if you resist," Hippolyta says. "And if you resist, it will hurt."

Menalippe does not reply. Her eyes are on the golden rope, now glowing ever so softly in a way that nothing made by mortal hands ever could.

"I compel you to tell me the truth," Hippolyta says, herself gripping the Lasso firmly. "What is your name?"

Menalippe opens her mouth, then closes it. She looks down at her wrist and grimaces. The Lasso begins to grow brighter. Suddenly, she hisses, then, bites back a scream. Her legs buckle and she drops to her knees on the floor, having barely caught herself in her fall. Sweat beads on her brow and drips to the stone floor as her fingers seize against it. Her struggle seems to last for an eternity. Finally, gasping, " _Menalippe_."

"Trust us, the Lasso works," Philippus says, voice devoid of emotion. There's an acrid smell in the air, like burnt metal and maybe flesh as well. "You were warned."

Antiope shifts her weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable. ' _It's fine,_ ' Menalippe had said. It is not fine. But Antiope is powerless. She doesn't like the feeling, not at all. At her sides, her hands clench into fists.

"I am told you see the future," Hippolyta says. "Explain."

Menalippe doesn't answer immediately, but neither does the Lasso glow. She's not resisting, she's just choosing her words. "I serve Hermes," she says, speaking slowly. Her voice is slightly ragged and, even if it weren't, she'd still sound utterly drained. She doesn't look up towards Hippolyta's face. Instead, still hunched over on her knees, she focuses her stare on Hippolyta's feet. "I was a shepherd and he… favored me. He decided to grant me the Sight. He did it wrong, he said."

From behind Antiope, Penthesilea, " _Gods_. They're-"

Hippolyta's eyes flicker to Penthesilea.

Penthesilea goes silent.

"Sometimes I See," Menalippe continues. "But more often I just…"

She goes silent. The Lasso remains quiet.

"It is not something that can be explained well in words," Menalippe says. "I know things."

Hippolyta kneels down so that she is almost on the same level as Menalippe. She reaches out and sets a hand on Menalippe's cheek. She does it softly. Her eyes, however, have lost none of their intensity. "You are chosen by one of the great gods. You have arrived here for a reason. Why are you here in Themyscira?"

Menalippe shakes her head slightly. "I am unsure," she says.

Hippolyta's lips press together in a tight line. Antiope can see thoughts swirling about in her head. _Machinations_. "Think," Hippolyta instructs. "Did divine Hermes tell you anything of your purpose here?"

"My lord told me that he cared for me and that I would find my happiness here," Menalippe says.

"But is that why he sent you?" Hippolyta interrogates. She is working very hard to be gentle. "Why did he send you here?"

"I don't know," Menalippe says.

"Why are you here?" Hippolyta asks again, as if she doesn't believe the truth that her Lasso has compelled.

Menalippe opens her mouth to say something else—and in that moment the Lasso flares, brillian white-gold light blanking Antiope's vision. Some force, unseen, _slams_ into Antiope. It feels to her as a physical force, hitting all of her at once with bruising force, sending her reeling backwards, barely able to stay on her feet.

Instead of speaking, Menalippe _screams_.

Stumbling blindly, Antiope blinks rapidly, trying to clear her vision. Her ears ring and the world tilts beneath her feet. Somewhere forward and off to the side, she hears Philippus cursing. Somewhere behind her, Penthesilea is doing much the same, but with a more limited vocabulary.

Antiope's foot bumps into something. The spots are clearing from her eyes now. Menalippe is curled in a ball on the floor, shaking uncontrollably, clutching her head. Her eyes are wide open, but frozen such that she seems to be looking at nothing at all. Antiope kneels down and sets a hand on Menalippe's elbow.

"Menalippe?" Antiope asks.

Lying on the floor a short distance away, Hippolyta raises her fist, the Lasso clenched tightly in it. The golden rope begins to glow brightly again as she pushes herself up onto her feet. She has _intent_. "What was that? What happened? _What did you do_?" Hippolyta fires off. She has quit entirely her pretensions of softness.

Menalippe doesn't answer. Her breathing is labored.

"What did she do?" Antiope snarls. Just as Hippolyta's anger is growing, so is hers. Sweat prickles on her brow. She can feel her fury building—a pressure in her head and in her chest threatening to rip her apart unless she _acts_. "What did _you_ do?"

Menalippe is a refuge-seeker. Her place in Themyscira is _sacred_. Hippolyta, queen or not, has _no right_.

"I've never seen the Lasso do that," Philippus mutters. She has one hand resting on the pommel of her sword, though she's making no move to draw it. From the way she holds herself, she is ready to fight, to defend her queen from… it is clear to Antiope, even if it is clear to no one else, that Menalippe will be attacking no one.

Hippolyta ignores her sister and her _strategos_ both. Still holding the Lasso, she orders, "I compel you to tell me _what you did_." The Lasso's light is fast growing once more. Menalippe still doesn't answer. She barely moves at all.

And then she moves all at once.

She moves as if she is drawn up by a string, graceless and in a pattern that human muscle and human bone should not be able to achieve. She looks not to Hippolyta but up to the distant roof of the palace. The voice that spills out of her is not hers. It is a voice that drips with power, resonant and otherworldly. " _Remove this bond from my granddaughter, queen of the Amazons_. _My gift to her cannot bear this game. Nor can she. Not yet. I hold no ill-will towards you and yours. Do not endeavor to change my mind. I am the first messenger, lord of roads and heralds and those who travel carrying the words of others. If I meant for you to know my intentions, you would know them."_

As quickly as it came, the power that drew Menalippe up drops her. She catches herself though, turning a fall into a controlled descent back to her knees, and there she stays, on the floor, on her knees, one hand outstretched to support her, staring blankly ahead.

The pallor in Hippolyta's face strikes a sudden contrast to the near-anger that ruled her features mere moments before. Her hands go limp and the Lasso of Hestia slips from them. Without a will to guide it, the rope goes dark once more. By the time it hits the stone pavement of the great throne room, it looks to be a simple, mortal, object once more. Face grim, Hippolyta pushes forward, quickly moving to Menalippe's side. She reaches out to take the loop of golden rope from Menalippe's wrist.

Before Hippolyta can undo what she has done though, Menalippe turns, looking up at the queen of the Amazons. Without a god speaking through her, her voice is weak and ragged. "Use it again."

Hippolyta hesitates. She's still pale and, as Antiope judges, there's a shadow of fear in her eyes as she glances towards Philippus.

"My queen, that would be unwise," Philippus says. She's moved to hover a few steps away from Hippoltya. Her hand is still on her sword, gripping tight now around the hilt. She's not still holding herself for a fight though. Ever a soldier, her hand on her weapon is just her way of soothing her own nerves.

Menalippe's growled reply is immediate. "Do it."

This time, Hippolyta looks to Antiope.

Antiope wants to say something—she doesn't know what—but her throat is stuck. Like a startled deer, she stares back, offering Hippolyta nothing at all. Antiope ought to have some coherent thought as to what Hippolyta should do but all she can think is that it is profoundly disconcerting to see her older sister so unsure.

Hippolyta's fingers twitch. She looks to Philippus again, briefly, then to the golden rope at her feet. Bending slowly, she reaches down and takes it gingerly. At her touch, it gains a luster but does not glow as it did when she willed it to do its work. When she speaks, she looks at her hand holding the Lasso rather than at Menalippe. "What do you want to say?"

Menalippe twists her wrist so that she too can hold the Lasso. It is her will that sparks it to a bright, golden life. She turns and looks backwards, dark eyes boring straight into Antiope with an iron intensity. "I am here to protect Antiope," she says.


	4. Chapter 4

**Defying Tomorrow: Chapter Four**

* * *

Hippolyta opens her mouth to demand more, but then she shuts it. The click of her teeth sounds sharply in the still throne room. She glances at Antiope, fear still about her in a way that makes _Antiope_ frightened. When she opens her mouth again, she licks her lips, then, "Will you speak further, child of Hermes?"

Menalippe looks away from Antiope, turning to Hippolyta. She removes the Lasso from her wrist. "I will not," she says. When she hands the golden rope back to Hippolyta, her hands are steady while Hippolyta's shake.

Taking a deep breath, Hippolyta nods. "My thanks," she says, "And my apologies. We will make appropriate sacrifices to your patron. And—and it is late. Antiope and Penthesilea will take you to a room in the palace for tonight. For however long you wish to remain here." When she backs away, she does so without turning her back until she's nearly reached the throne again. Then, she looks to Philippus. " _Strategos_ , she says. "Come. We must speak. And tomorrow we will inform the Council of these matters."

Philippus offers Hippolyta a half-bow. "My queen," she replies. Sliding into step behind Hippolyta, she follows Antiope's sister out of the throne room.

Only when queen and _strategos_ have departed does Menalippe slowly lower herself to the floor. She sits, setting her forehead between her knees, hands wrapped around the back of her neck.

Antiope reaches out to set a hand on Menalippe's shoulder, but before she quite does, Menalippe speaks. "Don't," she says.

Antiope retreats. As she does, Penthesilea catches her eye and shrugs. Together, they wait.

When Menalippe finally moves to rise again, neither Antiope nor Penthesilea try to help her. The presence that she always has about her, the sense of distance and calm, has become a thick aura, impenetrable.

Antiope allows Penthesilea to lead the way through the palace.

Penthesilea takes them to the most well-appointed guest room. Though everything in the palace reflects richly the wealth and power of the Amazons, the room that Penthesilea has chosen goes a step beyond most other parts of the complex. Tapestries in purple and the purest of whites drape the walls, showing the history of their people. Gold glints from the furniture; there's little that's practical to gild that hasn't been made to gleam. The largest piece in the room is its bed, a splendid construction of precious metals covered with down-feather pillows wrapped in crimson cloth.

When they arrive, Menalippe goes to the bed, lays herself down, and curls up again, holding her head. To Antiope, she looks _unwell_. She is dwarfed by the size and splendor of the room, of the palace, of— _of everything_. This is not a woman who will be protecting anyone any time soon, much less Antiope.

Antiope turns to Penthesilea. "You get food," she says. "I'll get water."

Penthesilea nods. They both depart.

Antiope returns first with a silver pitcher from the palace cistern and a blue glass cup. Menalippe is sitting up now on the edge of the bed. Antiope offers her the water and she takes it. She drinks slowly.

Antiope clears her throat. When Menalippe doesn't seem to object, she starts, "Do you… know what happened?" While Menalippe has remained seated, Antiope stands two feet away still holding the water pitcher. She's not sure if she should go closer or retreat so she stays in place. After Menalippe refused her help in the throne room, she thinks that she should not approach unless asked to.

Menalippe sets down the empty cup next to her. Her motion is gentle. She smooths her hand over the woven blanket that covers the bed. Like the rest of the room, like the rest of the palace, it is a rich thing, made of thick wool dyed red. Menalippe looks up and looks Antiope in the eyes.

For a single brief moment, Menalippe doesn't feel detached or distant. She is very much in the world and of the world—to Antiope's mind, Menalippe _is_ the world. Her dark eyes are fixed on Antiope in such a way that Antiope is sure she is examining every bit of her. It is akin to when Hippolyta looks Antiope over, save that Hippolyta judges and Menalippe simply _sees_.

"Sometimes I don't have the Sight," Menalippe says. "And sometimes I do."

Antiope adjusts her grip on the water pitcher. She shifts her weight from her right foot to her left. It is a very strange feeling, the sense that one is being evaluated and _understood_. "And sometimes gods speak through you," she says. Then, "So you Saw something? What?"

Menalippe finally looks away. She's doesn't seem like she's interested in looking anywhere in particular —her eyes end up settling on her empty cup—so long as she's not meeting Antiope's gaze anymore. "Nothing that I'm going to tell you," she mumbles.

There's a clatter at the door.

Penthesilea has returned form the kitchens with a very large platter of bread, cheese, and several chunks of some kind of meat. There's more than enough for three. Though she came in quickly, she immediately pauses just past the threshold of the room. Her eyes narrow and she looks between Antiope and Menalippe. "I'm not interrupting anything am I?" she asks.

Antiope immediately walks over to the single table in the room and sets down the water pitcher. "You're interrupting our wait for dinner," she says, trying very hard to sound upbeat and slightly playful when in truth she just feels strangely tingly.

It's clear from the look Penthesilea gives Antiope that her half-sister isn't fooled at all. Antiope is, generally speaking, a perfectly acceptable liar but Penthesilea knows her very, very well. Still though, Penthesilea takes the food to the table and puts it down next to the water. She twists slightly so she can address Menalippe. "Hey, come on. _Food_."

Movements somewhat cautious, Menalippe rises and walks over to the table.

There is only one chair at the table. No one takes it. No one suggests anyone take it either, though all would likely agree that the rules of guest and host dictate it belongs to Menalippe. Together, the three of them stand around the table and pick at the food until Penthesilea licks her finger and swipes up the last few bread crumbs with it. She does so shamelessly.

Antiope had thought there was more than enough food for three, but Antiope underestimated her hunger. And Penthesilea's. And Menalippe's.

For a little while, each of them stares somewhat blankly at the empty plate.

Finally, Penthesilea looks to Menalippe. "Would you like more?" she asks. Considering who it was who took the last crumbs, she's more asking if she has the permission of the guest to eat more herself.

Menalippe shakes her head slightly. "No," she says. Her voice is quiet. "But if you and your fellow _basileia_ are still hungry, I would not keep you."

Rarely has Antiope heard a more diplomatic dismissal. When the older Amazons want her gone, they tend to tell her so. Bluntly.

Antiope clears her throat. "We will take our leave then," she says. "Should you require anything, please ask for us." She pauses, thinking, choosing her words. "And we would like to apologize for our sister…"

Menalippe looks at Antiope and her dark eyes have gone distant again. "That was unavoidable and not unforeseen," she says. "But your sentiment is appreciated."

Unsettled, Antiope nods politely. She and Penthesilea evacuate the room.

[] [] []

"She's creepy," Penthesilea whispers, loudly. Penthesilea is not skilled at whispering.

Walking down the palace corridor towards the great hall, Antiope bristles. "She's god-touched," she replies, keeping her voice low. At this time of day, the only ones in the palace are their sister Amazons, but the Amazons all know too much of one another's lives not to gossip. "And you saw. You heard. Hermes picked her up and spoke with her mouth."

"You're god-touched," Penthesilea says. "I'm god-touched. Hippolyta's god-touched. But we're not…" She shrugs. "It's like she's halfway not here, even when she's not all the way not here. It's creepy."

"We just get angry and hit things," Antiope grumbles.

"He hasn't been around in a while," Penthesilea remarks. She doesn't need to say a name for Antiope to know that Penthesilea is speaking of Ares.

"He's been busy," Antiope replies. Her mind briefly flickers to the Athenians, to Corinth, and to their father's work. The work that she was born to do—that she _would_ do if given half the chance. "With being himself."

Penthesilea's sigh borders on dramatic. Then, "What is she going to protect you from? What can she protect you from that our father can't?"

Antiope shrugs, saying nothing. It's a question almost as ominous as the declaration that provoked it.

Penthesilea scrunches up her nose. "Probably yourself."

At that, Antiope feels a grin spread across her face. "She can try but I don't think that will end well for her," she says.

Penthesilea answers Antiope's grin with a grin of her own. Her elbow drives into Antiope's side, hard enough to make Antiope stumble. "Now you've got an excuse to—"

"You two." Philippus blocks the hall, arms crossed, standing between Antiope and Penthesilea and dinner. She's not as tall or as bulky as Penthesilea, but she's more intimidating by far. Antiope can beat most of her sister Amazons in a fight, even the older ones. That does not extend to Philippus. She has never had the honor of pitting herself against the _strategos_ , but her gut tells her she wouldn't win. If Philippus ever made herself available for sparring though, Antiope would love to try.

"Whatever it is, we didn't do it," Penthesilea says quickly, almost reflexively.

Philippus is not amused. "Your conduct is unbecoming of your station," she admonishes. "Come with me. Now."

Not having much of a choice, Antiope and Penthesilea together follow after Philippus. The path they take is not one that leads any closer to food. Eventually they reach a closed door. Philippus opens it and gestures that they go through.

Antiope has not been in Philippus' personal rooms since she was a young child who went where she pleased and couldn't be stopped. As an adult, sneaking into places she is not allowed takes far more effort and the _strategos_ ' quarters are hardly a worthwhile target.

Looking around quickly, the first word that comes to mind is _lakedaimonian_. Does Philippus have any personal possessions at all? Her rooms look utterly unlived in. Does she really spend so many nights with Hippolyta?

Philippus walks in after them and closes the door behind her.

"Who is she and where is she from?" Philippus demands, skipping any pleasantries. Philippus' tone makes Antiope straighten her back and square her shoulders and she feels Penthesilea beside her doing much the same. The _strategos_ of the Amazons is a master of the art of raw intimidation through physical presence. Before Antiope, she towers.

"The group she was with were helots form Sparta," Antiope says before her mind has quite caught up to the idea that she does not much like answering to Philippus. She's done it her entire life though and it's hard to stop herself. "I don't think she's from there though. She doesn't seem like the rest of them."

" _Obviously_ ," Philippus remarks. From her tone, it's clear she's unimpressed with Antiope's powers of deduction.

"They said she's from Arcadia," Penthesilea volunteers. "The others. The slavers already had her when they picked up the rest."

Phillippus grunts. She crosses her thickly muscled arms over her armored chest. "That's where she's from. Who is she?"

"Menalippe," Antiope responds. Attempting to remind Philippus of all the reasons Hippolyta forsook interrogation, she adds, "Granddaughter of Hermes."

"Why are you asking _us_?" Penthesilea challenges, finally picking up on Antiope's mood.

"Hippolyta won't permit me to ask _her_ ," Philippus rumbles. "So you're going to ask her for me. Nicely." Philippus says 'nicely,' but the way she says it suggests that she's not sure what the word means.

Antiope scowls. She does not like Philippus' proposition. And that is what it is, she is sure. It cannot be an order. If it were an order, they would not be hidden away in Philippus' unused quarters for this conversation. If it were an order, Philippus wouldn't have admitted to going behind Hippolyta's back. Philippus may be a great warrior and a great leader, but her talents do not extend to the subtleties of negotiations or subterfuge.

"I don't think so," Antiope says.

"Are you defying me, _basileia_?" Philippus asks, voice hot. "This is a matter of the safety of our people. The queen's hands are bound by her duties to refuge-seekers and guests. This, then, is a matter within my authority."

"And I would say that it is a matter within _my_ authority as well," Antiope replies. True, she has no real duties and no real purpose in Themyscira, but if Philippus has dragged up her title then she will assert it for all its meager worth. "Will you take this to Hippolyta?"

Antiope can see the thoughts whirling in Philippus head. When Philippus' answer finally comes, it comes flatly, evenly, without anger. "Then I leave this to your discretion. And I remind you that you have obligations beyond yourself. You may go."

She says ' _may'_ but she does not mean the word permissively. She means: _get out_.

Antiope steps around Philippus and exits, Penthesilea trailing behind her.

[] [] []

Hippolyta isn't at dinner.

This is not unusual. What is unusual is that Antiope has some sense of why it is that Hippolyta isn't at dinner. And it leaves her worried. _Anxious_.

Having already eaten in Menalippe's room, she and Penthesilea both finish quickly what food they still wanted.

Stomach satisfied, the fullness of the day begins finally to settle on Antiope's shoulders. So much, it seems, has come to pass in such a short period of time. At the same time though, in a way, nothing at all has truly transpired. When she leaves the great hall, she will return to her quarters and go to sleep in much the same world that she woke to.

The only difference, when all is said and done, is that one of the refuge-seekers now sleeps in the finest guest room in the palace.

The only difference for her, at least.

Antiope sets her elbows on the table before her and rests her head in her hands. Beside her, Penthesilea mimics the gesture. "Obol for your thoughts?"

"I feel badly that we told Hippolyta," Antiope says. "I wish that we hadn't."

She fully expects Penthesilea to agree with her.

Penthesilea does not agree with her.

"We did the correct thing," Penthesilea says. She pushes a stray lock of blond hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear. All around them rings the clamor of the Amazons at dinner. With Hippolyta and Philippus absent, however, they are alone at the high table. "There's no use in regretting doing the right thing."

Antiope sighs, her entire body rising and falling. "Perhaps," she replies. She then pushes away from the table and stands. "I'm going now."

As Antiope leaves the hall, Penthesilea does not follow.

[] [] []

Antiope wakes with the sun.

Instead of dressing for combat and heading to the yards, she slips into a tunic and sandals and goes towards the wing of the palace complex where the guest rooms are.

When she reaches Menalippe's room, she finds the door open and the room empty. For several minutes, uncertain, she loiters in the hallway.

There are only two places, she thinks, that Menalippe might have gone. She has either gone back to her work in the city or Hippolyta has fetched her for something. Antiope prefers the former to the latter but suspects the latter over the former. Anxiety coils in her gut.

Finding Menalippe, Antiope thinks, is a matter of finding Hippolyta. This, Antiope can do. Finding Hippolyta is never especially challenging. She is queen. Her comings and goings are noted by all.

Antiope strolls down the corridor, keeping her movements loose and natural. She comes first upon Latoreia. She hails her fellow and she asks if Latoreia has seen her sister.

Hippolyta has gone to the temple district and she's taken a good many Amazons of rank with her. Not the full Council, but most of them. She left only a short while ago.

Antiope thanks Latoreia and sets out immediately. The temple complex is the second greatest cluster of buildings in the city, second only to Hippolyta's high house. They are also on the other side of the city. A wide paved boulevard, the central street of Themyscira, connects the palace and the temples directly. The distance is a wonderful thing for great processions and high ceremony. It's a frustrating thing for Antiope's convenience.

Antiope considers running, but it is just warm enough and just humid enough that she will sweat and she will not dry. She would prefer not to enter the temples in such a state. And the priestesses who tend the temples would also prefer she not enter the temples that way. They may _prefer_ to the point of rejecting her presence entirely. Hippolyta could likely enter a temple over the objection of its clerics, but that is beyond Antiope's privileges.

She contents herself with walking at a brisk pace.

As she crosses the city, many try to greet her. She makes some attempt to acknowledge them, but she does not try very hard. A greeting returned often becomes a conversation and a conversation is inevitably a delay.

Antiope feels a pressure in her. She should not run but she also must not delay. The chaotic mess of a thriving city blurs by as she hurries.

In short order she reaches the temples. There are guards along the edge of the sacred precinct. Some of them are temple guards and some of them are Hippolyta's. The temple guards nod to Antiope and do not obstruct her. It's one of Hippolyta's guards who steps into her path.

" _Basileia_ ," Alkyone says, standing squarely in Antiope's way. "What business do you have here?"

"I'm here to see my sister," Antiope replies. She dabs her forehead with the back of her hand, checking for sweat. There's some, but not enough she might be deemed insufficiently tidy for the eyes of the gods.

"The queen is busy," Alkyone replies. "If you would like to leave a message for her, I will convey it when she finishes."

"I am sure that she is not too busy to spare a moment for her sister," Antiope presses.

"And I am sure that she specifically directed that she was," Alkyone says flatly.

Antiope is thinking up a smart reply when one of the temple guards approaches. The guard wears a full helm despite the heat of the day and if it were not for her crimson and gold cloak, signifying her rank, Antiope wouldn't recognize her. It is Marpesia, _lochagos_ of the temple guards and priestess to grey-eyed Athena. She moves somewhat slowly. She is old and, though she is not yet bent by her age, she has reached the point in her life where she often complains of aching joints. "Is there something the matter here?" Marpesia asks.

"The _basileia_ has come to see the queen," Alkyone says. "The queen left orders that she was not to be disturbed."

"I see," says Marpesia. "And, of course, I am sure that the _basileia_ would not defy our queen. But you seem to be standing so as to block her. These temples are open to all who follow the gods. You know that, little Alkyone."

Alkyone's face flushes. Marpesia is many things to many of the Amazons. A combat instructor. A leader. A mentor. In Alkyone's case, Marpesia is her aunt.

Though she is of equal rank to Marpesia, Alkyone steps aside. She doesn't deny what she was doing or make any excuse for herself. She decides that one of the nearby rooftops is truly fascinating and fixes her eyes there.

Antiope shoots Marpesia a thankful glance. Though Marpesia wears a full helm, Antiope thinks she catches her winking. Antiope's thankful glance turns into a grin.

Once she has entered the temple complex, it's a simple matter to find which temple it is Hippolyta has gone to. It's the one with the most guards outside of it. These guards don't try to stop Antiope. She walks with confidence and, surely, if she's gotten so far without causing an incident then it must be proper for her to be there.

Antiope climbs the great white steps of the Temple of the Five and passes the high altars, gleaming with gold, unhindered.

The Temple of the Five is the largest and most ornately decorated of the houses of the gods in the city. Dedicated to the goddesses who brought the first Amazons into being, Aphrodite, Hestia, Artemis, Athena, and Demeter, it stands in the center of the temple district.

Antiope enters the temple through the front door. The change from the full bright light of the sun to the thin beam of it streaming through the door into the _naos_ causes her to slow her step slightly as her eyes adjust. Sacrifices made with fire take place on the steps. No torches ever violate the sanctuary.

In the dim light, the statues of the gods loom. Towering so high that their heads brush against the ceiling of the temple, the figures of the Five stand draped in rich indigo robes edged with gold. Their faces, painted ivory crafted by Hestia who built Themyscira, are said to be the closest to their true likeness as any idol in all Greece. A great many pilgrims come to Themyscira for that very reason—to be seen by the gods themselves.

At Antiope's entrance, the group of Amazons huddled together towards the back of the room all turn to look at her. Quickly, Antiope's eyes flicker from woman to woman, identifying them. Hippolyta has brought many of her closest advisors and Menalippe as well. The group of them stand before the five priestesses of the temple. From their positions, Antiope thinks that they were arguing about something before she arrived and they all went quiet.

Menalippe looks uncomfortable but not upset.

It is important, Antiope feels, not to give Hippolyta any chance to tell her to leave. She crosses the sanctuary quickly, taking long steps. The farther she has to walk in order to get out, the less likely it is she'll be ordered away. As she walks, she sees Hippolyta frown. In the end, her sister doesn't dismiss her though. Antiope takes a place among Hippolyta's advisors without incident. Menalippe is standing near the priestesses and Antiope can't quite figure out how to get to where she is without outright shoving her way there.

Even in all the commotion of her entrance, Menalippe does not turn towards Antiope.

Hippolyta returns her attention to the priestesses. "Continue," she orders.

Gryne, the dark-haired priestess of Hestia glances at her fellows, all of whom avoid her eyes, before clearing her throat. "The Lasso does more than force the truth to light," she says. There's a hesitance in her tone, as if she is afraid of making a misstatement. "You know this."

"I do," Hippolyta says, prompting.

"What the refuge-seeker has suggested sounds plausible," Gryne says.

"That's not helpful," Hippolyta remarks, voice dry.

"Were you really expecting more?" Philippus asks. Standing beside Hippolyta, her arms are crossed over her chest.

"No queen has ever used the Lasso against a Seer before," Gryne says, reproachful. "And certainly not so recklessly."

"I had no choice," Hippolyta bites back. She has drawn herself up, surrounding herself in a cloak of regal majesty. She doesn't like being questioned.

Now Nyctimene, priestess of Athena, speaks. "None of the gods have yet moved against us. There's no reason to provoke them to do so by laying hands on one of their chosen. We should probably be sacrificing to Hermes right now, even more than we did last night." The quick look she shoots at Menalippe is, in Antiope's reckoning, slightly fearful.

At Nyctimene's suggestion, there's a murmur of agreement among the Amazons present. Sacrificing to the gods, in most circumstances, can only help.

"My queen, daughter of Otrera, you always seek action," says Phytala, priestess of Demeter. She is far older than anyone else in the assemblage. All her hair is white and she leans on a staff. "But what can action add here? You always come to us for counsel and we always counsel you the same. If she is here to protect your sister," at this, Phytala nods towards Antiope, "Then let her. But there's no need to seek out trouble. None of us can say what it is she is here to protect Antiope _from_ , save, perhaps, her. Those bound by the Lasso can speak only truth. She told you her purpose. Trust that much, at least."

"We would trust more if she would tell us more," Philippus says. Antiope does not appreciate the way she looks at Menalippe. It's hostile.

Speaking, finally, in this conversation about her, Menalippe's reply is frosty. "Nothing else that I Saw is relevant to you." She glances, quickly, to Antiope for the first time. She looks away again as soon as Antiope tries to meet her eyes.

Hippolyta sighs. She runs a hand over the band of golden steel that serves as her crown. To Menalippe, she asks, "You were a shepherd, correct? Can you fight at all?"

Menalippe shakes her head no.

"If you are going to protect my sister from… whatever it is you have Seen, I would like that to be changed," Hippolyta says. "If that is agreeable to you. With this war, we have too many weavers of late. The loom house is overcrowded and so too are all the other stations we give to newcomers."

In an instant, all attention that had been on Hippolyta transfers to Menalippe. There is silence.

To Antiope's ear, Hippolyta's words are order rather than question. Menalippe, however, seems to think otherwise.

"I…" Menalippe starts. She closes her mouth, hesitating for a second, then, "It is not disagreeable, I think."

Hippolyta looks to Philippus. " _Strategos_ , see that my will is done," she says. Returning then to Menalippe, she adds, "And if you would ask your lord not to judge this city harshly on account of my actions, I would be grateful." She raises a hand now and gestures, sweeping her hand, palm face down, in a horizontal motion. "This meeting of my council is over," she says.

The meeting may be over, but by protocol, no one moves to leave until Hippolyta herself has turned and begun to stride towards the door.

Menalippe hangs back, watching the Amazons depart. So too does Philippus. And, thus, so too does Antiope.

Stiff, Philippus is frowning, deeply, at Menalippe. A half-turn, however, and she's frowning at Antiope. "You," she says. "You train her."

And then Philippus too leaves, her dark red cloak swishing softly with every step.

Only Antiope and Menalippe remain in the sanctuary of the Five beneath the tall statues of the gods.

The both of them find their own feet far more interesting than the other's face.

Finally, Menalippe speaks. "Thank you," she murmurs.

Nothing particularly articulate comes to Antiope's mind as a reply, so, "What?"

Menalippe shrugs. "For coming," she says. "That was… unpleasant." She looks up towards Antiope now.

Menalippe has beautiful eyes, Antiope thinks. Everything about her is beautiful.

"You handled yourself very well," Antiope says. She searches for a moment for something clever to say. When she lights upon it, she grins and adds, "I'll bet I can get you to handle a sword even better though." She holds out a hand toward Menalippe. "Shall we?"

Menalippe takes Antiope's hand.

[] [] []

Most of the warriors of Themyscira are born Amazons. It is their duty, after all, to defend the city and the land and all who seek refuge with them. Though few have the same innate talent for war as Antiope or Penthesilea or even Hippolyta, almost all take quickly to the art of arms. Even before Amazon children set foot on the training grounds, they've been hitting one another with toy weapons for years. Battle is in their blood.

For the refuge-seekers, it is different.

While the Amazons are always willing to train refuge-seekers in things like grappling, this instruction rarely extends to any weapon heavier than a knife. The outsiders who join them as warriors are those who were, in some capacity, much the same before. Otherwise, few refuge-seekers have any desire to become soldiers—and soldiery is the only occupation that calls for the mastery of sword and spear and shield to the level that the Amazons train to.

Antiope has never trained anyone.

She has only ever _been_ trained.

And she has only ever been trained as one would train a daughter of Ares—she need only see a move once to understand it and execute it near flawlessly. From what she has gathered, it is not like that for other people.

Leaving the temple with Menalippe following behind her, she has no idea where to start. The bow, perhaps? Perhaps horsemanship?

As they step out of the temple and into the sunlit city, Antiope asks, "Shepherds have sticks, right?"

"It's called a crook," Menalippe replies. "But yes."

Antiope's face flushes. She knows very little about sheep. She looks down at the white marble stairs as they descend them, trying to hide her embarrassment. "You've used one though?"

Menalippe doesn't answer immediately. When she does, there's something in her tone that Antiope can't confidently identify—maybe it's amusement, maybe it's annoyance. "Yes," she says.

"Have you ever used a spear?" Antiope asks. At the base of the temple steps, the only guards who remain are the ones assigned to the temple district. They nod respectfully at Antiope as she passes. Hippolyta's escort have left with her, likely back to the palace.

" _Basileia_ ," Menalippe starts, "I have never held a weapon larger than a knife."

"Call me Antiope," Antiope says. She shrugs. "I'm not really much of a _basileia_."

"You are the queen's sister," Menalippe replies.

Antiope sighs. "I don't do anything though," she says. "Hippolyta won't even let me leave the city."

"You did leave the city," Menalippe says. "When you freed us."

"And that's why I'm not allowed to leave the city," Antiope grumbles. They're leaving the temple complex now and entering the maze of Themyscira's streets. It is midday and all about are women going about their business. Antiope leads, picking her way through the busy walks. As summer sets in, the city will only bustle more and more.

"I do not understand your meaning," Menalippe says.

Antiope grimaces. "My sister thinks I cause trouble. She'd lock me in my room all day if she could. The slavers were Athenians and we have a treaty with Athens. We're supposed to let them cross our lands freely. But they're not supposed to…" Here, Antiope hesitates. She gestures, vaguely. She does not wish to offend. "Transport people."

"I see," Menalippe says.

Hearing those words, Antiope thinks that, perhaps, she actually does. "You saw," she says. "Hippolyta was furious. She thinks I'm a disaster. She thinks that I'm going to inherit her throne someday and lead the city into ruin." Having built up momentum, Antiope keeps going, "I've never even left our lands. Everyone else gets to travel, but not me."

"Your sister…" Menalippe begins. She pauses, searching for words. "Your sister cares very deeply for you."

At this, Antiope scoffs.

" _Basileia_ ," Menalippe says. "Antiope." She gestures back towards the temple complex. "That wasn't about me. That was about you."

Here, Antiope falters.

Her first instinct is to brush the comment off. Even before she opens her mouth she has a sense that she will accomplish this poorly. "If it were about me, they would have invited me," she says.

To this, Menalippe does not reply.

In short order they reach the place where the houses of the city give way to the grassy fields that the Amazons use for martial practice. It is by now a late hour for anyone new to arrive on the fields and the warriors who train there are deep in the thick of their work. Antiope hesitates here. She looks to Menalippe. "You were likely not expecting this to be part of your day," she says. "So perhaps, for now, just a tour?"

Menalippe's calm in her answer suggests to Antiope that perhaps she did expect to find herself here. "Whatever you think is best," she says.

Antiope nods. It's more for her own benefit than Menalippe's. "This way," she says. She takes them first to the long tracks set at the edge of the field where warriors can run without worry of getting in anyone's way. The grappling rings are next. Today, the rings are where Artemis has chosen to place herself and, as always, there is a line of Amazons waiting to be thrown onto their asses.

Penthesilea meets them near the racks of weighted practice weapons. Her long blond hair is tied back in a messy ponytail. Sweat gleams on her skin. As Antiope and Menalippe approach, Penthesilea arches an eyebrow at them both. To Antiope, she asks, "Where were you this morning?"

Antiope shrugs. "I wanted to find Hippolyta."

Penthesilea now inclines her head towards Menalippe. "And what's she doing here?" She probably doesn't mean it to sound dismissive, but it does.

"Hippolyta wants us to train her," Antiope replies. "Because… we have enough weavers."

"Huh," Penthesilea grunts. Then, "I get it." She says it while giving a little bit of a nod with her head. Suddenly, her face breaks out into a wide grin. "So what are we waiting for?"

[] [] []

Menalippe's first day of training under Antiope and Penthesilea goes about as well as any reasonable person could have expected.

Antiope hopes that Menalippe does not hold it against them.

[] [] []

"You should come to the palace dinner with us," Penthesilea says. She wipes thick sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. On the horizon, the sun is setting, casting the sky a vivid red.

Menalippe is sitting in the grass where Antiope knocked her. Her spear is several feet away.

Antiope, sheepish, holds out a hand to help Menalippe up.

Menalippe takes it.

Menalippe's hand is slick with sweat and there are bits of dirt sticking to it. Where Amazons tend to have callouses, Antiope thinks she feels blisters starting to form.

Even when Menalippe is standing, she bends over and rests her hands on her knees. "I really don't think…" she starts.

"If you work like this, you need to eat more than you do now. You're scrawny," Penthesilea says. "Palace baths are nicer than the city ones too. We can all soak together."

Antiope is at once very glad that her face is already red from exertion.

"I…" Menalippe starts.

"Come _on_ ," Penthesilea urges.

Antiope clears her throat. "I'm not sure…"

"No one asked you," Penthesilea fires off to Antiope. Then, looking back to Menalippe, "Shall we?"


End file.
